Emails from the Pendragon Institute
by ForzaDelDestino
Summary: 4th and final fic in the Pendragon Institute series. At the museum of medieval art, reactions to Arthur's latest decision range from excitement to shock. Arthur and Merlin head to London to make things official, but will they have any time alone there? AU
1. Chapter 1

**EMAILS FROM THE PENDRAGON INSTITUTE **(4th story in the Pendragon Institute series)

**Chapter 1: Arthur's Inbox**

To: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: MLeFay_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

Subject: WTF

_Arthur, I'm accustomed to your inconsiderateness and your obnoxiousness, and your air of masculine superiority, and everything else about you, but I never thought you'd try to keep such major news all to yourself and not share it. When in bloody hell did you propose! Why didn't you tell me? Were you going to keep it a secret until you said bloody I do? I could absolutely strangle you. __Incidentally, Merlin is way too good for you, and is far better than you deserve, you bastard. __Morgana_

Reply from: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

_Dear Morgana, __Your email is perfect evidence of why I didn't tell you. That and the fact that you wouldn't have been able to keep your mouth shut, and the whole world would have known by now. May I suggest that you meet lover boy L at The Griffin and drown your sorrows in several vodka martinis? Then go home like a good girl, and swallow a pint of grapefruit juice in the morning. You and Father can be in agreement with each other for the first time in history, and can commiserate over my insanity with my blessing, although your reasons for calling me insane will differ. __Arthur_

To: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: gwencameliard_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

Subject: Congratulations!

_Dear Arthur, I'm so, so happy for you and can't wait for you to tell me about it in person. When did this happen? I haven't said anything to Merlin, as he's shy about such things and will probably turn crimson and vanish behind a pile of condition reports. I won't say a word to anybody about it until you say I may. Have you told your father? I'm so excited I can scarcely type. Could we have lunch together? Please? I really need to know ALL, and if there are things you don't want repeated, I'll promise not to tell Lance. __Love, Gwen_

Reply from: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

_Dear Gwen, __You are a lifesaver. I knew you'd understand about why I haven't said anything to anybody. News seems to have leaked out anyway, I'm not sure how. Now I'm in for it, it seems, as my dear stepsister is furious because I haven't confided in her. Thanks for standing by me. I can always count on your kind heart. It'll probably be a quiet civil ceremony, just signing the papers with witnesses or whatever it is one does, but if I were having an old-fashioned event, I'd ask you to walk down the aisle with me and give __**me**__ away. j/k! __Love, Arthur_

From: mordredpen_at_yahoo_dot_com

To: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

Subject: I TOLD YOU SO

_Dear Arthur, __I think it's brilliant that you're going to marry Merlin, and you should say thank you to me because it was all my idea. Morgana's having a fit because you didn't tell her first, but I don't blame you, because she goes all girly and shrieky about these things. I know Mum will be on your side. Don't pay any attention if Father shouts and gets cross, he will just have to get used to it. I told him long ago that we should keep Merlin in the family and he turned purple and coughed a lot. Thanks for the choc bars with peppermint bits in them, they were great. Can I have some more, please? __Mordred_

Reply from: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

_Thanks for your support, little brother. Of course I know you want to keep Merlin here just because he's the only person who understands a small fraction of that physics stuff you've been yammering on about. I don't know what you mean about it being all your idea, but that's alright. Look after your sister and don't let her throw too many things at the wall. If you can get her to calm down, I may consider sending you to Cal Tech or MIT after all (when you're old enough to shave). I'll have a box of those choc bars waiting for you at the Institute on Monday. __Arthur_

To: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: utherpendragon_at_albion_inc_dot_org

Subject: Rumor

_Arthur, I can only assume that you have taken leave of your senses, if what I've been told is true. I received an email from a cousin of Gaius, offering his congratulations on my son's forthcoming marriage. I do not see any reason at all for you to take such a step. Have you even considered the effect that such a thing would have on the Institute? Have you thought about what a field day the press will have with this information? I am seriously disturbed by this news. Kindly do not accuse me of prejudice, as I believe that I have been quite understanding about your current relationship. As I have said before, my objections do not necessarily reflect any thoughts I might have about Merlin Emrys, who is of course an excellent conservator, although hardly the sort of person I would expect my son to form a legal union with. Such a thing would not be suitable. I await your reply. __Your affectionate father_

Reply from: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

_Dear Father,_

_I have read your email and duly noted your opinion on the subject. The news of which you speak has only been given to Gaius and to Merlin's mother, and I was preparing to tell you about it via telephone. Neither the press nor the museum community knows anything about it. I am sorry to distress you, but Merlin is entirely suitable. __Arthur_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur Pendragon, Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Art, frowned as he switched off his home computer. He was sitting behind the desk in his study, where he had been using webmail to check any messages that might have come to his office computer after he left the Institute at lunchtime, to meet with a collector of medieval stained-glass roundels. The meeting with the collector, who was planning to donate one of his objects to the Institute, had lasted until after five, and Arthur had decided not to go back to the office. Instead, he had walked home, undeterred by the blizzard that was blanketing New York with snow, arriving at his flat at almost the same time as his junior conservator. It had been difficult not to laugh at the sight of Merlin, whose tufted dark hair was ornamented with tiny ice pellets and melting snowflakes, and whose dripping clothes were plastered to his thin frame. His fingers and ears were pink with the cold, and Arthur had groaned with exasperation.

"Have you lost your hat and gloves again, _Mer_lin?"

"No," Merlin had replied in a muffled voice, sneezing as he tugged off his boots. "That is, I let Gwen use my gloves because _she_ lost hers, and the hat blew away in the wind."

"You're impossible," Arthur murmured. "That's the third hat this winter."

"You're _counting _my hats?" Merlin asked in astonishment.

"You really _do_ need looking after," said Arthur severely. "Which is why I've decided to take you on for life." He had seized Merlin by the scruff of the neck and marched him into the bedroom, where he had watched, tapping his foot like an impatient schoolmaster, as Merlin struggled out of his soggy jacket, scarf, shirt, and trousers. Resisting the impulse to push Merlin into the bed and join him there, he had pulled one of his own sweatshirts over Merlin's head, handed him a folded pair of jeans, and stalked out of the room, grumbling about the stupidity of underweight, overachieving conservators who couldn't tie their own shoelaces without falling over, in spite of having professional abilities that other museum personnel described as magical.

Then he had retired to his study and gone through his emails. It took half an hour to respond to them.

Now he _really_ needed a drink

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur decided not to reveal the contents of his emails to his junior conservator, who was rummaging in the kitchen, looking for forks and spoons. Uther and Elaine, Arthur's stepmother, had flown back to London three days after Christmas, which had enabled the Institute staff to celebrate New Year's (and Merlin's birthday, which happened to coincide with it) in relative peace and quiet. Arthur had said nothing to anybody at work about his proposal, and Merlin's acceptance, with the exception of Gaius, who stood almost _in loco parentis_ to Merlin and had known the Assistant Director since his infancy.

And now it appeared that Gaius, dear old fellow that he was, and Head of the Institute's Conservation Department, had passed on the news to his cousin in London. Who had somehow or other said something to Uther.

Once they were seated at the dinner table, Merlin eyed the mammoth piece of beef on Arthur's plate (he himself was having pasta with fava beans), and passed him a weighty steak knife.

"I've brought you your ceremonial sword."

"Is that for me to fall on?" his Assistant Director asked gloomily, jabbing at his New York Strip with a vengeance.

"Hopefully not," replied Merlin, surprised. "What's wrong?" The withdrawn, closed look on Arthur's face enlightened him, despite the lack of a response. "You've heard from your father, haven't you."

Arthur grunted in reply.

"And he…he's heard about…well, you know?"

"Yes," said Arthur shortly, glaring at his steak.

"And he's, erm, not pleased. You knew that would happen, I told—" One look at Arthur's face informed him that to say "I told you so" would not be the best of moves.

"I'm not angry with _you_, Merlin," Arthur muttered. "It's _him_. He's always expected me to follow in his bloody footsteps. He wants to map out my destiny, but he also raised me to be a leader, and so I am. How can he expect me to do as he tells me now, when I've been taught to trust in my own judgment? When my decisions and views vary from his?"

"Destinies are troublesome things," Merlin said after a moment, choosing his words carefully but worrying, at the same time, that he was about to put his foot in it. "You feel trapped? Like your whole life has been planned out for you and you've got no control over anything and sometimes you don't even know if what destiny has decided is really the best thing at all."

"How come you're so knowledgeable?" snapped Arthur, almost peevishly.

"I…read a book?" Merlin said, unable to think of anything else to say on the matter. But he looked so achingly appealing at that moment, his blue eyes wide and his pillowy lips pressed together with concentration, that Arthur nearly smiled.

He chose to spear a large portion of his steak instead, mumbling, "Anyway, what do you mean, 'what destiny has decided'? Destiny didn't tell me to propose to you, you idiot. That was entirely my idea."

"Erm," said Merlin.

"And you put up plenty of arguments against it," Arthur continued, his lips finally curving upwards with a rueful grin. "Before you bloody gave in and said yes."

"I can't think what possessed me at the moment," Merlin replied, smiling a little. He knew that once all of this went public, many would assume he was a gold digger, chasing after Arthur Pendragon for his money and social standing. Or that he was simply infatuated with the Assistant Director's semi-celebrity status, or his fabled, blond good looks. After all, who the hell was Merlin Emrys? The only people who knew and respected his talent and his work as an arts conservator were members of the international museum community.

"Well, Father's found out," Arthur said wryly. "And Morgana has as well. She's livid I didn't tell her first. I fully expect her to hurl something at my head tomorrow morning."

"She won't," Merlin began, hefting his mug of coffee, but he was interrupted by a loud knocking on the door of their flat, followed by a repeated ringing of the doorbell.

Annoyed, Arthur strode down the hall and flung open the door ("He shouldn't do that," Merlin thought to himself. "Even though there's a security system and a doorman downstairs, who knows who could have sneaked into the building, somehow!"), only to find himself inches away from the most recent subject of their conversation, his raven-haired stepsister Morgana, senior curator of the Pendragon Institute.

Taken by surprise, Arthur took an involuntary step backward, but Morgana stepped forward and, to his shock and amazement, flung her arms about him and hugged him fiercely.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You have a habit of turning up outside my door unexpectedly," Arthur complained, once he had extricated himself from her clutches.

"At least you're not half-naked this time," his stepsister replied tartly as she stepped back. "I feel as though I ought to hit you," she added, drawing her elegant eyebrows together. Arthur eyed her hands warily, relieved to see that they had not closed into fists.

"I can't believe you told _Gaius_ before you told me," she continued, making her way into the sitting room and flinging herself into the most comfy of the upholstered chairs. "Merlin has a good excuse, Gaius is practically his surrogate father. But you! I mean, I'm your stepsister, Arthur."

"I was going to tell you, Morgana," Arthur murmured calmly. "Perhaps round the same time I told Father. I didn't tell you_ first_, because I knew you'd be shouting it from the rooftops ten minutes later."

"I would _not_," his stepsister said hotly. "Although now perhaps I should, and damn the consequences."

"I'd really appreciate it if you kept it to yourself, Morgs," Arthur said tiredly. "And yes, you can tell lover boy, if you must, but let it stop with him. The others will know soon enough."

"Why shouldn't they?" Morgana drawled. "They'll all be delighted. Oh…except for Catrina, that wretched old bat. I do wish she'd retire. For God's sake, Merlin, what's the matter? You've gone all red."

"The press," Merlin said with reluctance. The ivory of his cheeks was suffused, not with red, but with a faint peach color. "I've been doing my best not to think about them, but, well—"

"Don't be silly," Morgana said in her loftiest tone of voice. "The media will make pets of you both. News about you will help them sell papers. Arthur's a dish, much as I hate to say it. And you're quite pretty, Merlin, stop blushing. The respectable, reputable newspapers and magazines will be just as happy to write articles about you as the tabloids. As long as they have nice photos to go with."

"I'm _not _pretty," Merlin insisted, putting his coffee mug down with a thump.

"_Mer-_lin," said Morgana, suddenly sounding like Arthur.

"I look like a cross between a meerkat and a Star Trek Vulcan," Merlin said, unconsciously raising his hands to his ears.

Arthur collapsed into laughter on the sofa.

"Nonsense," snapped Morgana briskly. "Meerkats? And Vulcans have pointy ears. You don't." She rose to her feet. "And now I really must be off."

"Meeting lover boy at the cinema, are you?" Arthur asked caustically. "Mind you pay for the tickets. Of course, he's so bloody gallant he'll probably take you to some overpriced French bistro, afterwards."

"No bistro, not tonight," Morgana replied, fishing a lipstick out of her purse and deepening the crimson of her lips with a lavish hand. "And no cinema, not at this hour. He's simply stopping by for…for, um, a drink later, after Mordred's gone to bed. He said he'd take me to a new Indian restaurant on the Upper West Side tomorrow. And for heaven's sake, stop calling Leon lover boy. He's not a boy, he's, well, quite the man."

"TMI," Arthur murmured. "There's absolutely no reason for me to hear about that sort of thing."

"I didn't realize it was so late already," she continued, eyeing her tiny, jeweled wristwatch with dismay. "I do hope Alice will understand. She's been looking after Mordred this evening."

Alice was Morgana's neighbor who periodically came in to help with household chores, and occasionally looked after the flat when Morgana was away. She also babysat Mordred if Morgana stayed late at the office (although Mordred insisted that this was unnecessary). She was a cheerful blonde in her late middle age, and Morgana (inveterate matchmaker that she was) was of the opinion that old Gaius fancied her.

"If Leon gets to the flat before I do, he'll tell her she can go home," she murmured as if to reassure herself.

"I always knew poor old Leon had the patience of Job," Arthur said smiling, as he walked her to the door. Morgana rolled her eyes but made no reply before her hasty exit.

Arthur locked the door and then turned to find Merlin leaning against the wall, looking at him solemnly. His face was a pale blur (neither of them having bothered to switch on the hall light) beneath the blackness of his hair, and as Arthur looked at him he began to fidget, shifting from one foot to the other as he often did in moments of uncertainty. It really never ceased to amaze Arthur that anybody could look so chaste and so seductive at the same time. To add to this there was his most effective trick: half-closing his eyes so that they were veiled by his lashes, and then sliding the pupils to look at Arthur sideways. This long, subtle glance was as mischievous as it was tempting, and never failed to put his Assistant Director into a state of total...readiness.

"I think it's nearly time for bed," Arthur said, yawning elaborately and hoping Merlin would get the message.

"Really?" said Merlin skeptically, looking at his watch. "It's not even ten yet."

"Long day tomorrow," Arthur stated authoritatively. "Staff meeting. I know I said I was going to read Will's objects conservation reports, but I think I'll pack it in and brush my teeth instead."

* * *

**I know I used a fair amount of dialogue from "The Changeling" episode, but it seemed to fit.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Merlin's Inbox  
**

To: memrys_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: gaius_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

Subject: Best wishes

_Merlin, please accept my good wishes for you and Arthur. You know I will always be supportive of you, even if certain people (and you know of whom I speak) are critical of your decision. I know you've told your mother, and I'm sure she will be happy for you. I'll be late to the Institute tomorrow, as I have a dentist appointment, which I'm not looking forward to. Damn fellow looks like a goblin, and he'll probably tell me I need an extraction. Gaius._

Reply from: memrys_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

_Thanks, Gaius. I haven't got any hate mail from He Who Must Not Be Named. If we were living in a Harry Potter movie and this was Hogwarts, I would have received a Howler from him by this time. Good luck at the dentist. Merlin_

To: memrys_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: hunithemrys_at_rr_dot_uk_dot_com

Subject: Telephone

_Darling, I was so happy when you rang me up yesterday, such a surprise. I've been thinking over what you told me, and feel that if you and Arthur are happy together, everything else will work out. I haven't told anybody yet, but I'll be speaking with Gaius soon. Of course I'll come to the civil ceremony, or whatever it is you plan to have. Will it be in the States or are you planning to do it in London? I'll ring you tomorrow, and we can have a chat. Much love, my dearest boy._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin checked his office messages using webmail before shutting down his computer for the night. Arthur was in the shower, singing the old Beatles song, "I've Just Seen a Face," at the top of his lungs, and Merlin smiled when his voice cracked on one of the high notes, to be followed by "Oh, bugger it!" and a great deal of splashing.

Minutes later, Arthur emerged from the bathroom rubbing at his hair with a towel, another more or less draped around his waist.

"Aren't you tired, Merlin?" he asked, eyeing his fully-dressed companion with one eyebrow raised. "You and Gaius were racing about all morning with those massive bottles of distilled water. What on earth are they for, anyway?"

"For cleaning frescoes, of course," Merlin replied. "Oh! I forgot to tell Gaius I'd be at work early tomorrow, so he needn't worry about having to go to the dentist."

He went back into the office and restarted his computer. As he sent a brief message to Gaius, via his personal yahoo account rather than webmail, he could hear Arthur yawning (a bit more loudly than was necessary) as he made his way to the bedroom. It wasn't difficult to figure out what his Assistant Director had in mind, which was more or less what he had in mind almost every evening. After more than a year of being involved in a relationship with Arthur Pendragon, and close to a year of living together, it rather amazed him that Arthur still desired him so fiercely. He, like everybody else, knew that Arthur – in the past – had had any number of glamorous, beautiful lovers of both sexes, and that he hadn't stayed with any of them for very long. So how was it that he was now clamoring to make their tie permanent?

Merlin didn't question his own physical desire for Arthur. He was in love with him, and passion was simply a part and parcel of that fact.

"_Mer_lin!" Arthur's voice echoed down the hall as Merlin closed out of his yahoo account. As usual, he emphasized the first syllable of his junior conservator's name. "You're not surfing, are you? At this hour?"

"No," Merlin shouted back, scrolling absently through images of late medieval tapestries on the Musée de Cluny's website. "I just wanted to check—"

"You can check it in the morning, can't you?" growled Arthur. "If you don't get a move on, I'll have to turn up the thermostat."

"Are you cold?" Merlin asked, surprised.

"I'm _naked_," Arthur replied in a very stern voice.

"Oh," said Merlin, and switched off the computer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I can't think why you're so nervous about the press," Arthur mumbled in a ruminative way. "The _New York Times_ is hardly likely to run an article about the relatively tame private life of a museum assistant director. And the tabloids are only interested in the sorry exploits of the latest self-destructing Hollywood starlets and pop singers. Don't you agree?"

"Umdumreetblims," said Merlin from somewhere underneath him.

"What?" said Arthur. "Oh, sorry." He rolled onto his side, liberating his young conservator, and looked at him questioningly.

"I said, I don't read the tabloids," Merlin repeated, pushing his hair out of his eyes and looking up into Arthur's. Arthur was leaning over him, and the lamp was behind him, so it was impossible to make out the clear, sky blue of his irises. Lamplight outlined Arthur's powerful shoulders with gilt and glinted off his hair; it was impossible, Merlin sighed mentally, not to stare at him when he was like this.

"I don't read them either," Arthur murmured, running his fingers lightly over Merlin's ribs, feeling their almost delicate outlines beneath the pale, fine-grained skin. "_Mer_lin, I think perhaps you should start eating snacks between meals."

"You're trying to avoid the issue," Merlin stated calmly. "I've told you, I don't really care what the media says about me. But Uth…your father will be livid if he sees lies and nonsense about you printed up in the gossip columns."

"What sort of gossip can they possibly print about me?" Arthur asked, making an effort to assume a saintly expression in spite of his rumpled hair, his flushed, kiss-swollen mouth, and his nudity.

"Apart from dredging up past amours," Merlin said dryly, "they'll profit by spreading the rumor that you spend your spare time cavorting in bed with the most junior of your conservators."

"Don't be such an idiot, Merlin," Arthur said patiently, sitting up. "D'you think my father wants to read about me cavorting in bed with a bronzed, buxom, self-destructive Hollywood starlet?"

"He'd prefer that to a pasty Irish boy," Merlin replied.

Arthur fell back onto the pillows and snorted with laughter.

"It isn't funny," Merlin insisted, but his lips were quivering with the beginnings of a grin.

"Yes, it is. And at least it isn't _a lie_," Arthur said cheerfully. "I cavort with you whenever I have the opportunity."

His fingertips traced the stark bones and sharp planes and angles of his conservator's face as he noted the gold reflection from the bedside lamp in the changeable blue of his deep-set, half-closed eyes.

"If you'd like to do a bit more cavorting," he murmured, "I believe I've got my strength back."

Merlin gave him an incredulous look, but allowed his Assistant Director to pull him mouth to mouth. He was drowsy, but the sweetness of those kisses, the warmth of that full, slightly chapped lower lip...there was no point in resisting, and he didn't want to resist. After several minutes, Arthur turned over onto his back, drawing Merlin down on top of him, and smiled.

"I believe I'm quite ready," he said in a voice that was only mildly authoritative. "If you are."

"I know _you're_ ready," Merlin replied, squirming a little and reaching down between them. "There appears to be ample proof of that fact."

"Ample!" Arthur panted, frowning. "You should have said, 'huge.' Or 'massive.' Ample is such an imprecise term."

"There's no reason to get all precise and scientific," Merlin said, closing his fingers around the amplitude. "You're starting to sound like your little brother."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Are you alright, Gaius?" Merlin asked anxiously after one look at the pained expression on the face of his department Head.

"Oh!" said Gaius heavily, sitting down. "My teeth! My entire mouth hurts."

"That's not good, sorry," Merlin said in a commiserating tone, but thinking all the while of Arthur's remarkably pointed eye teeth. "Would you like an aspirin?"

"That dentist is a closet sadist," muttered Gaius, hunting amongst the piles on his desk for his coffee mug. "He's been written up in the newspapers as one of the best in the business, but he seems rather heavy handed to me. And what a bizarre sense of humor he has. I think he was cackling all the way through my cleaning. And he really does look like a goblin, in addition to acting like one."

"Really?" his youngest conservator said with surprise. "That is, he's Morgana's dentist as well, and she swears by him."

"Yes," Gaius replied tartly. "He gave her that great box of chocolates for Christmas. What sort of dentist gives his clients _chocolates_? Ah...of course, he wants more business, and there's nothing like sweets to bring people round to the dentist's office. She must have been on one of those silly, faddish diets, because she shared them with all of us, remember?"

"I do," Merlin replied grimly. "They gave the entire staff flatulence. Maybe he _is _a goblin after all."

"Oi," said Will, coming into the office with a pile of condition reports in his arms. "Talking about those chocolates, are you?"

"Yeah," Merlin answered, as Gaius continued to shuffle the piles on his desk. "You ate more than your share, as I recall."

"Dreadful stuff," Will said, sniggering. "Gave everybody the farts, as _I_ recall."

"Will," Gaius said severely, eyeing the sheaves of condition reports. "Those belong in the black notebook, and you know it. Would you mind fetching it from downstairs? I believe it's in the Paper Conservation studio."

"Right," said Will obediently, silently mouthing a string of curse words behind Gaius' back. He didn't mean them, of course; all of the conservation staff were devoted to the elderly, silver-haired head of their department and leaped to do anything he asked of them. He nudged Merlin in the ribs as Gaius finally located his mug and stalked off towards the staff lounge to brew some of his noxious black coffee.

"Look here, you git," Will murmured, closing the office door. "I need to talk to you. I've heard this rumor…well, I overheard Gwen…look, if you're planning to legally ally yourself with the bloody gentry, am I going to have to call you Sir Merlin someday in the future? Prince Merlin? The Lord High Merlin? The Right Honorable Lady Pendragon?" He ducked as Merlin threw a wadded up newspaper at him. "I know Arthur's not a bad sort, not like I used to think he was, but still…"

"Oh, _there_ you are, Merlin!" said Morgana, flinging open the door and nearly knocking Will over as she swept into the office. "And Will, excellent! Would you both be kind and lend me copies of the reports I wrote on the upcoming loan from Sicily? I've misplaced my originals, can't find the damn things, and don't want to watch Arthur smirking his way through the staff meeting at the thought that I've done something stupid."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Emails and Telephones**

To: apendragon _at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: utherpendragon_at_albioninc_dot_com

Subject: Your plans

_Arthur, we are agreed that you shall ring me at five this afternoon, your time. I will be at home. Your affectionate father._

Reply from: apendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

_Dear Father, Thank you, I will ring you at home, at five o'clock New York time. Arthur_

To: apendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: elainepen_at_yahoo _dot_com

Subject: Your plans

_Dearest Arthur, I was quite pleased when I heard your news, even though it came to us indirectly, from Gaius' cousin. I can understand your hesitation in conveying it to us directly, although I'm certain you were planning to do so. You may have to put up with a bit of grumbling from your father, but we must try to understand his point of view. I believe that he will come round before long. Remember that he does care for you very much. My fond greetings to Merlin. Elaine_

To: apendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: GWAINE_at_ metmuseum_dot_org

Subject: The Griffin:

_Look, mate, Lance and I were chillin, as the Yanks say, with some museum colleagues from the Met last night, and we thought it might be cool if you joined us at The Griffin after work on Monday. By "you" I mean you and the rest of your Institute people, including the ladies, of course. Lance thinks the missus will be willing to come along, and you can probably convince your stepsister. Don't forget to bring the lovely Merlin, and I promise I won't ply him with Long Island Iced Tea. Cheers._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Arthur!" Morgana shouted through the open office door. "Staff meeting! Or have you forgotten, oh high and mighty Assistant Director?"

The Assistant Director threw a crumpled up alarm system printout in her general direction.

"We have five minutes," he stated flatly, eyeing his beautiful stepsister with disapproval. She had chosen to deck herself out in a v-necked jacket that showed off her charms to good advantage, although he suspected that it was entirely for Leon's benefit. "You go on ahead, then. Need to find my notes."

"I wish we weren't having it in the library today," Morgana sniffed, smoothing her heavy mane of dark hair and adjusting her earrings. "I'm exhausted, and Geoffrey won't let us bring coffee in."

"Perhaps he remembers the time you spilt tea on his beloved Anglo-Norman dictionary," Arthur said, rather unkindly, as he himself had once knocked over a half-empty bottle of glue on their aged librarian's desk.

As the sharply rhythmic tapping of Morgana's four-inch heels died away, Arthur looked at his computer screen and gave an almost inaudible groan. He was not looking forward to a telephone conversation with his father, but supposed it would have to be gotten over with sooner or later. It was far from difficult to imagine what Uther would say to him, not that this made things any better. As he got to his feet, meeting notes in hand, Arthur wondered whether he should break a long-standing museum rule and have a drink just before five o'clock.

With a certain reluctance, he decided against it. He was _not_ going to break one of his own commandments, just because Uther Pendragon was disappointed in the future plans of his first-born son.

He shrugged himself into his jacket, half-listening to the sounds of museum visitors in the hall beyond the door. As he closed the door behind him, his eyes automatically skimmed the area, observing the groups of people (today it mostly looked like families and students), and the solitary art lovers, meandering along the hallway, admiring objects displayed on the walls, or heading into one of the galleries. Then he observed Gwen and Will heading for the library, followed more slowly by Gaius, who was wearing his usual shapeless cardigan and a rather long-suffering expression.

No Merlin.

Well, Merlin would probably be late, as usual. And would barrel into the library without knocking, to the tolerant amusement of his colleagues. Arthur marched purposefully to the library door, where he was joined by Lance and Leon. As they prepared to enter, Morgana appeared, crumpling an empty Starbucks grande cup in her free hand and waving her meeting notes in the other.

"You're not going to say anything to the others about…you know?" she questioned Arthur under her breath as she passed him.

"Absolutely not!" he snapped quietly, and gave her a warning look as she made her way to one of the library tables, where Geoffrey Monmouth sternly pointed in the direction of a waste paper basket. Looking only faintly apologetic, she dropped the Starbucks cup within.

The Assistant Director cleared his throat. "Before we get started," he said, "I really do have to thank our senior curator for declining the offer from the Metropolitan Museum. Not that I'm certain we couldn't manage without her…" he added, and watched his stepsister's lips twitch as she rolled her eyes, whilst the rest of the staff chuckled. "But she's a halfway decent scholar, and it would be a shame to deprive museum visitors of the, uh, sight of her."

Morgana continued to roll her eyes and adopted a martyred expression as the rest of the staff burst out laughing.

"To get down to business, then," Arthur intoned, barely missing a beat as the library door creaked open and Merlin skittered inside. He continued to speak, ignoring the glances his colleagues were casting in his direction, and then Merlin's. It was to be expected that at least a few of them had heard something about his…his proposal, via some sort of mysterious grapevine. Gaius knew, naturally, and Gwen had found out…but they had been sworn to secrecy. Not that oaths of that kind were foolproof. Will was looking at Merlin curiously – this was hardly surprising, as the two were childhood friends – and Lance (who might have heard something from Gwen) was studiously examining the floor.

Having gone through the usual museum business, Arthur turned to the subject of the possible loans from Sicily. The highlight of these was a twelfth-century mosaic whose composition nearly matched that of one of the Institute's tapestries, but what was unusual about the loan was that the owner was willing to pay for insurance and shipping of the objects – something the borrowing institution was almost always expected to do.

"Good job Signor Whatsisname is willing to foot the bill for transport," Arthur said. "If this bloody loan actually happens. We have Cornelius Sigan's exhibition to pay for, less than a year from now, and there won't be much left over."

"Signor _Schiavone_," Morgana sighed impatiently. "Can't you ever remember these lenders' names? Yes, it's lovely he's willing to pay. Otherwise we'd be horribly short of funds and would have to resort to our old plan to pimp out our Assistant Director."

The staff roared with mirth and it was Arthur's turn to look martyred. He shot a quick, surreptitious look across the room and saw that Merlin was grinning along with everybody else.

"The johns and joannas will be lining up on the sidewalk," Morgana went on. "You can do your research and administrative work between turning tricks," she added, and Arthur snorted derisively.

"Let's get back to the business at hand, shall we?" Gaius murmured a little testily, and Morgana subsided instantly.

"I can see there aren't going to be any official _announcements_," Lance whispered to Gwen as Arthur launched into a review of insurance matters, and the cost of producing catalogues for future shows.

"If the loan from Sicily goes through," Morgana was saying, "we should actually produce a catalogue. You write it, Arthur, I'll be too busy with other things."

"Don't we usually collaborate on those wretched books?" Arthur grumbled. "I've never written an entire catalogue, cover to cover."

"There's a first time for everything," murmured Morgana, a little snidely.

"Oh, please," Arthur said. He automatically donned his most exasperated look, but his memory was replaying the very first time Merlin had lain trembling under him, in that hotel room in Santa Barbara.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Shortly before five, museum closing time, he was seated behind his desk, mentally preparing himself for what was likely to be a heated discussion, complete with an onslaught of objections and brusque expostulations from his father. Arthur mulled over possible responses (none of which would seem adequate to the Senior Director, he realized grimly), and when five o'clock actually arrived he dialed Uther's number with a certain degree of apprehension.

Uther answered on the second ring. Arthur imagined that he must have been sitting at his own desk, in his study, glowering the way he always did when faced with something unpleasant involving a member of his family.

To his son's relief, the senior Pendragon did not launch into an angry rant. His voice sounded cool and determined, as usual, but Arthur could hear the strain in it.

"Father," he said as calmly as he knew how. "I'm sorry this distresses you. But I really don't see the problem. Apart from a week's worth of silly articles in the press, I don't think anybody will take much notice. Even the society reporters and television news journalists can't say much, as there will _not_ be any glitzy ceremony or multi-million dollar reception with hundreds of guests. My guess is, that lot will take very little notice. It'll be: 'Look, old boy, don't waste air time on that Pendragon business, it's old news. What's Lindsay Lohan wearing to her next court appearance? Is the Queen inviting Lady GaGa to Buckingham Palace?' So I wouldn't wo—"

"You don't want me to worry, Arthur," said Uther heavily. "Yet you insist on tying yourself for life – theoretically, anyway – to a young _man_ from…now, Arthur, don't accuse me of snobbishness, but—"

"Please don't tell me you're going to talk about class distinctions," Arthur interrupted in a pained voice. "That idiotic issue seems to bother you even more than Merlin's, um, gender."

"Class distinctions be damned!" Uther exploded, his voice suddenly getting louder. "Naturally I think about what sort of background my son's future…future…partner comes from, but that isn't the crux of the matter and you know it."

"Right," said Arthur wearily, and settled in for what promised to be a long and painful argument.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur emerged from his office white-faced and tight-lipped, but strode out of the building with a deliberately casual air. Merlin, waiting for him on the front steps, made a deliberate effort not to look curious, and simply fell into step beside him.

"Are you hungry?" he finally asked after they had walked for three blocks without exchanging a word.

"Yes…rather," was the vague reply, but at least Arthur no longer looked angry. "Would you mind very much if we ate at home? There's that odd-looking couscous with mushrooms in the fridge, for you, and I can eat the leftover chicken. And I think a bottle of wine is called for."

"That's fine," Merlin said, wondering whether he should look sympathetic or nonchalant. He was willing to listen, if Arthur wanted to talk, even if that meant he would get an earful of Uther bloody Pendragon's objections to Conservator Merlin Emrys becoming an official member of his centuries-old and venerable family. His uncertainty must have shown on his face, because Arthur suddenly smiled at him, and when they were in their flat, the door safely locked behind them, he pushed Merlin against the wall and wrapped his arms round his slender waist.

"Dinner first?" Merlin said feebly, when he finally managed to disengage his mouth for more than a simple gulp of oxygen.

Arthur sighed and rested his brow against Merlin's.

"Right, then," he murmured, taking a deep breath. "Dinner first. I'll open the wine, if you'll dig some food out of the fridge."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Over dinner they spoke casually about the next year's exhibition schedule, and the need to ensure that lenders and couriers from other museums were put up in decent hotels when they arrived for the openings. ("I suppose that sod, Cornelius Sigan, will be flying over for the opening of his exhibition," Arthur grumbled. "Must we buy him a First Class ticket? Or will he fly over at his own expense, on one of his own stupid planes?" Merlin asked skeptically. "Of course he won't, you clot," Arthur replied, grimacing.) Talk then turned to future plans for the Institute.

"Father wants to use some of the lower level as gallery space," Arthur announced. "He thinks it can be done with a minimum amount of reconstruction."

"You mean _the basement_?" Merlin sputtered, dropping a forkful of couscous into his lap. "Has he forgotten that's where the Conservation Studios are? And where are Gaius and the rest of us supposed to work…on the roof?"

This made Arthur laugh, which was something Merlin actually had been aiming for.

"What would he want us to display there?" he continued, mopping at the spilled couscous. "Relics from medieval sewage systems?"

"Ha ha," Arthur said, wrinkling his nose. "He thought it would be nice to have a separate gallery just for arms and armor."

Merlin made a dismissive, grumbling sound, which he thought might be a good alternative to saying anything overtly critical of the Institute's Senior Director.

"God's sake, Merlin, stop making horrible noises," his Assistant Director snapped. "And clean up that mess, you've got dinner all over your trousers."

"Stop bullying me then, you prat," said Merlin, smiling.

"Why should I?" Arthur replied with a wry grin. "It's doing you a world of good."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After the evening news, Arthur showered and was in bed well before midnight. As he could still hear Merlin padding about in the kitchen, he picked up the book he had brought home from the Institute and began to read the first chapter in a desultory fashion. Determined not to dwell on the conversation with his father, which had concluded in a less than satisfactory manner, he managed to get to the beginning of Chapter Two. The book had been handed to him by Lance and was, not surprisingly, about arms and armor. Fortunately, the text was actually lively and interesting, and the color images of Henry VIII's various suits of armor, ranging in date from his youth to the last decade of his life, made him laugh for the second time that evening.

"What's funny?" asked Merlin, entering the bedroom still wearing his jeans and one of Arthur's oldest, discarded tee shirts. Arthur showed him the armor, whose dimensions expanded from suit to suit, as the monarch went from trim, athletic youth to obese, hobbling hedonist over the course of several decades. On the facing page was a reproduction of one of the king's most well-known portraits.

"And that man went through six wives," Merlin muttered, eyes raised to the ceiling. "Imagine waking up next to that mug. I'd rather spend my life single and celibate, thanks very much."

"You haven't been single for some time now," Arthur drawled, returning his gaze to the book and turning the pages absently. "And you certainly haven't been celibate."

"That's not entirely my fault," his junior conservator retorted as he pulled his tee shirt over his head. "In fact, it's mostly _yours_. But I'll admit that you do have your good points. And," he added, the jauntiness in his voice softening, "you're certainly more than just looks, no matter what Morgana may say in jest."

Arthur was mentally fishing for a sarcastic, witty reply when he found, to his horror, that the printed page was suddenly blurring before his eyes. He closed the book with a snap and put it on the bedside table, carefully keeping his back to Merlin and pretending to be seized with a fit of coughing.

"Are…are you alright, Arthur?" Merlin asked, and the mattress dipped as he slid into the bed.

"I'm fine," Arthur said, blinking furiously. "Can't read, must be getting a cold, and my eyes hurt from staring at the computer screen all day."

"Oh," said Merlin quietly, not believing this for a moment. Then, in a normal voice: "Would you like me to read to you?"

Arthur took a deep breath, biting the inside of his lower lip because he was terrified of the sudden emotion that threatened to make the moisture in his eyes overflow. He _would not_ let that happen, _he would not_, certainly not in front of Merlin. One memory forced its way into his consciousness: his younger self, home from university to spend the winter holidays in London; coming in one evening after having dinner with friends, and tiptoeing quietly past Mordred's nursery only to hear the soft voice of his stepmother, reading aloud. He had stopped in his tracks, mesmerized by the continuous, gentle murmur, interrupted from time to time by Mordred's drowsy, fretful little voice. A rush of sadness had taken him by surprise, a kind of envy, the reminder that no one had ever read to him when he was Mordred's age, or sat up with him in the warm, nurturing circle of light from the bedside lamp and watched over him until he slept. He had stood motionless in the shadow behind the nursery door until he felt in control of himself again, brusquely wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand.

Now Merlin was offering…he cleared his throat and coughed again, self-consciously.

"Erm, Arthur?" Merlin said, very softly, behind him.

"Yeah, that would be…" he made an effort to sound sleepy, and turned over onto his back, yawning and rubbing his eyes with his fists to explain away any redness. "That would be great."

Merlin reached over him, retrieved the volume, settled himself against the pillows and began to read aloud, his light tenor voice falling into an easy, soothing rhythm, to which his accent added an occasional lilt. To Arthur, lying still, it was a little like listening to the distant sounds of a mountain brook: clear water running and bubbling over pebbles and rocks, washing away the tension and anxiety that had taken hold since his conversation with Uther, the niggling fear that Merlin would somehow regret his answer to Arthur's proposal.

Looking over at him after a while, Merlin could see that his breathing was slow and even, his eyes closed and lips slightly parted. Merlin set down the book and kissed him softly on the shoulder, before fishing the bedclothes up to his chin and then quietly turning out the light.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By morning, Arthur had regained his composure, his swagger, and his alpha male demeanor, as well as his conviction that Merlin hadn't noticed a thing the night before. And Merlin, who, naturally, had very much noticed _something_, was tactful enough to go along with the fiction.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Morgana's Hobbies, Civil Unions, and What Arthur Likes to Do in Bed**

It was Friday morning, two days since that unpleasant telephone conversation with Uther, and the Assistant Director was staring at an in-house email from Gaius on his computer screen.

_Arthur, I've received an email from your father, referring to the need for additional gallery space. In the present economy, it would be risky to add a new wing to the building, and I believe he is thinking about converting some of the basement space for exhibitions. This would entail relocating the Conservation department. He said something about moving it to another building – I'm not sure where – but nothing definite. Perhaps we might discuss this matter in your office? Gaius_

This new campaign by the Senior Director hadn't taken Arthur entirely by surprise, as he had known for weeks that Uther hoped to expand the scope and size of the Pendragon Institute. There had been talk of putting in some form of garden or atrium space, like the one at the Frick Museum, or constructing a small auditorium where they could hold concerts, as the Morgan did. It occurred to Arthur that relocation of the Conservation Department – possibly to another building in another part of the city – might have struck Uther as a convenient method for separating him from his junior conservator, although perhaps he was reading too much into the Senior Director's plans.

He had regained his calm and his air of cool self-confidence since his talk with Uther, but beneath it he was still simmering with a slow-burning anger at his father's words.

"For pity's sake, Arthur," Uther had snapped. "I'm not saying you have to give up this boy. But marriage, I mean a civil union, makes no sense. What do you gain by it? The only person who serves to gain by such a thing is Merlin. Now, Arthur, don't-"

"Are you saying, Father," Arthur had interrupted coldly, "that Merlin accepted my proposal for monetary and social gain? You've met him. You know him…a little. Does he strike you as that sort of person?"

This had been followed by some quiet blustering by Uther, who endeavored to turn their talk toward other aspects of the problem, but who (interestingly) had not said that he saw anything venal or mercenary about the Institute's junior conservator.

"I've told you I have nothing against young Merlin," he had murmured before the conversation came to an end. "And your stepmother has spoken for him, she thinks…But I don't understand…I don't see how it could come to any good."

Of course the issue that probably weighed most heavily with Uther was not alluded to: biological grandchildren. It had hung like a nasty little storm cloud over the whole conversation, with neither able or willing to say anything about it.

"It's absurd," Arthur had said to himself after setting the telephone receiver down. "Mordred should be perfectly capable of providing the next generation of Pendragons. Why put the entire burden on me? And there's nothing wrong with adoption…not that I'm ready for it!" Faintly ludicrous and horrifying visions of himself and Merlin, swathed in aprons, chasing screaming toddlers, changing nappies, and mopping up baby messes flashed through his brain and made him guffaw.

(There were so many different options when it came to that sort of thing, anyway. Arthur remembered Morgana's recent words to him, after one of their more memorable arguments: "Don't worry. I'm certain a Pendragon will rule over the Institute for a long time to come.")

Under the circumstances, Arthur was thinking now, would it not be better to go to Massachusetts or Connecticut or Vermont for a civil union, rather than travel to London and have to face Uther's disapproval? Not to mention having to subject Merlin to the very same thing.

The Assistant Director was running these matters over in his mind as he left his office and headed down the stairs to the Conservation studios in the basement.

Will was whistling loudly in the Objects Conservation studio; Arthur could hear him clearly in the hallway. In Paper Conservation, Gaius was tutting over a manuscript whose warped surface was refusing to flatten, whilst Merlin stood beside him, frowning as he stared at the vellum through a glass.

As Arthur entered the antiseptically pristine white room, Gaius groaned and gestured at the recalcitrant manuscript. At the sound of his footsteps, Merlin's head came up sharply, like that of a terrier at the sound of his master. Except that Merlin bore no real resemblance to a terrier; he looked, Arthur thought, more like a greyhound or whippet, all thin, long limbs, bone and whipcord. Beautiful.

Then Merlin took his horn-rimmed glasses out of his pocket and put them on. A greyhound with spectacles. Arthur smiled in spite of himself, and cleared his throat.

"I read your email, Gaius," he said in explanation as he sat down on a stool next to their worktable. "And thought I'd come down to discuss it. But as you're in the midst of something…"

"No, it's alright," Gaius mumbled, sweeping a pile of papers off a chair and collapsing onto it. "I'm glad you've come; it's easier to talk than to email, for myself anyway."

"I don't know that there's any likelihood of relocating the Conservation Studios," Arthur said without any preamble. "We put a lot of work, not to mention funding, into making the ones we have state of the art. If Father wants additional gallery space, it would be more sensible to add on a new wing, a small one. We could build it on that little vacant lot behind this building. You know, the one that used to be a parking lot. I believe we own part of the land."

"Hmm," said Gaius, and lapsed into silence.

"I'll look into it, anyway," Arthur went on. "But there's no hurry. We can't afford to do either thing, not this year. But there's, um, something else I'd like to discuss with you. In private, in my office; just before five?"

"Of course, Arthur," Gaius said, standing up with an effort. "If you could give me a clue what it's about…?"

"Not in front of Merlin," Arthur said loudly, with a broad grin.

"And people _say _Mr Pendragon has flawless manners," Gaius joked, and Merlin pretended to be offended. But his eyes, when he turned them on the Assistant Director, were luminous and smiling.

"I have excellent manners," Arthur retorted, and then, before Merlin could contradict him, he turned back to Gaius.

"I'll see you before five, then. Oh, and thanks for the condition reports, they were excellent. We need new ones for the entire metalwork collection as well. You can give them all to Merlin to do."

As he ascended the stairs to the main floor, having ignored the indignant stare his junior conservator leveled at him, Arthur mentally patted himself on the back. He deserved a medal, he said to himself, for his consistent ability to maintain a purely professional demeanor at work when in the presence of that frustrating example of temptation on legs.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur was checking the General Register Office website for information on civil unions in the UK when the door to his office opened and Morgana waltzed in.

"Now what?" he asked, glancing up at her without much surprise.

From the brilliant smile she cast in his direction, he could tell that she was in a particularly evil frame of mind.

"I thought our staff meeting went rather well," she responded, still smiling like the proverbial canary-eating cat. "But I'm still a trifle miffed, stepbrother dear, that you put off telling me about your, shall I call it an engagement? And I still think you should tell the rest of the staff."

"Why bother?" Arthur asked, shrugging his shoulders with irritation. "Half of them must now by now anyway."

"No, besides Gaius, just Gwen, I think, and possibly Lance. But Arthur, you ought to tell me how you proposed," Morgana went on inexorably. "And how Merlin responded."

"You," said Arthur, both eyebrows doing a halfway creditable imitation of Gaius's, "are like a steamroller with a malfunctioning brake. Can't you ever stop?"

"No," replied Morgana serenely. "I really want to know. I think it's only fair. You're my stepbrother, and Merlin's going to be my…my…_stepbrother-in-law_?"

"Poor Merlin doesn't know what he's in for," Arthur muttered. "Or maybe he does. But he's so bloody polite, he'll put up with you."

"Arthur," Morgana began sweetly, but the Assistant Director slumped in his chair, his fingers resting on the bridge of his nose.

"Morgana, please," he said in a tired voice. "I don't ask you for details about your private life. And I certainly wouldn't want you to volunteer any. The less I know about what you…about you and…about what you do, the better. How lover boy Leon manages to deal with you I'll never know."

"Now, now, Arthur," murmured his stepsister, patting him on the head. "I'm not a perv or a voyeuse by any means, but a little curiosity about these matters is not a bad thing."

"Next thing I know," Arthur growled, "you'll be asking everybody in the staff meeting about their private bedroom activities."

"Oh no," Morgana said airily, as though such a thought had never occurred to her. "Of course not. But you're different; you're family. I can't say I haven't wondered about the mechanics of your sex life-"

"Morgana!" bellowed Arthur, pounding his fist on the desktop.

"Shhhh! Arthur! Really, I had no idea you were such a prude. Especially given your very active, um, past. Stop looking horrified; I wasn't going to ask for any details. I don't need to know precisely what you like to do in bed."

"Fuck's sake, Morgana," Arthur burst out. "I'll bet anything you write smutty stories and post them to one of those, you know, one of those websites."

When Morgana's smile broadened he gave her a look of disbelief.

"Does lov…does Leon know?" he asked bitingly.

"What dear Leon doesn't know won't hurt him," Morgana replied, tossing her head. "But that doesn't mean I'm admitting to it. Incidentally, Leon's a very fine person, every bit as honorable as Lance, but he may not be the pure-minded soul you seem to think he is."

Arthur put both hands over his ears and rolled his eyes.

When Gaius walked into his office shortly before five, he found the floral scent of Morgana's perfume still hovering in the air, but the senior curator had taken herself off. Arthur waved his Head of Conservation into a chair, and, as he had earlier, said what he had to say without any preliminaries:

"Gaius, do you think the Institute could manage without me for three to four weeks next month?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I've been doing a bit of research, Merlin," Arthur said that evening, switching off the television after the weather report. "On how to go about arranging for a civil union in London."

Merlin had been looking a little pale, probably from fatigue, but now he seemed to go even paler. He was wearing an ancient black tee shirt with faded writing on the front, and the even more faded image of a mythical beast – a griffin? – on the back, and the stark contrast between his pallor and the darkness of his hair and garb was both visually appealing and slightly worrying.

"Are you certain you're getting enough iron in that rabbit-food diet of yours?" Arthur asked, and Merlin chuckled halfheartedly.

"To get back to what I was saying," Arthur murmured, his eyes on Merlin's face, "there are certain requirements. First is that you need to reside in the country in which you plan to, er, join? unite? union…um, _unionize_?…no that's not the right word, for God's sake...for _seven_ days. Then you need to give notice of intent at a registrar's office, and then there's a wait of fifteen days until you sign the actual document of—"

"Arthur," croaked Merlin, eyes wide and cheeks suddenly flushed. "Are you telling me we have to stay in London for fifteen, no, twenty-two days before making it official?"

"Well, yes," Arthur said, not realizing that his voice had gotten louder and heartier in an unconscious effort to make it all sound easy. "We can stay with—"

"No, Arthur," said Merlin faintly, "I can't stay in Uther's home. Not for three weeks – with him feeling the way he does. It wouldn't be fair…to him or to us."

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but the loud jangling of the telephone cut him off. Frowning, he checked the caller ID, and seeing that it was Mordred, answered it reluctantly.

It transpired that Mordred was out of sorts because he had only gotten 98 percent for a grade on his recent history exam. As he had never received anything less than 100 before, he had spent most of the evening sulking, to Morgana's dismay, and was now grumbling about how his teacher must have misread the conclusion of his short essay.

"Mordred, if you can't be bothered to write legibly, how can you blame your teacher for misreading what you've written," Arthur admonished his little brother, making a concerted effort not to sound like their father. "I know your generation is accustomed to typing everything onto a screen, but one still needs to know how to jot things down using a pen or pencil."

As he spoke, he watched out of the corner of his eye as his young colleague headed for the bathroom. He could hear Merlin washing his face and brushing his teeth, heard him knock over the water glass on the edge of the sink (which fortunately did not break), and then saw him emerge – hair rumpled and spiky –and stalk down the hallway, his face a careful blank. Once Arthur had had reassured Mordred that a grade of 98 was anything but disastrous, and that he would still be eligible to apply to whatever university he liked when the time came, he rang off and followed Merlin into the bedroom.

"I know you don't really want to talk about this," he sighed as Merlin, still fully dressed, turned in his direction. "But we have to discuss it, sooner or later."

His conservator took a step towards him and surveyed his face in a speculative manner.

"Did you know your eyes are almost turquoise?" he said casually, looking at them appreciatively.

"_Mer_lin," said Arthur severely. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"I'm not," said Merlin innocently. "I'm—"

"Yes you are," Arthur said, more gently. "Listen, about going to London. You know that when we're there I won't have anything said against you."

Merlin's own eyes darkened slightly, and he turned and went to the window to close the curtains. Once that had been done he paused for a moment, as though trying to think of something to say. Arthur felt his heart constrict a little, and he switched off the overhead light, leaving only the bedside lamp on, and took two steps toward Merlin, who still had not moved.

"It'll be alright, Merlin," he said quietly. "I know it will."

Merlin had seen him through the difficult evening of his father's telephone conversation. The least he could do was to see Merlin through his own apprehension about the future, legal union, Uther, the Institute.

He took another step, less than a foot separating him from his conservator's stubborn back, and reached out, placing the tips of his fingers lightly against Merlin's hip. Merlin caught his breath but remained silent, and Arthur moved forward again until his chest was against the ridiculous image on the back of Merlin's shirt, and he could wrap his arms round his fragile waist. Merlin sighed, his head fell back against Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur could feel him shiver as he slid his hands under the tee shirt, up over Merlin's flat stomach and then further up, feeling the smooth skin, the light dusting of hair, the delicate modeling of his chest. He waited patiently, and when he felt that slender frame relax against him, he carefully pulled the tee shirt over his head and ran his lips lightly over those boyish shoulders, nibbled the ivory nape beneath the ends of Merlin's dark hair.

Merlin still said nothing, but he turned in Arthur's arms so that they were face to face, and raised his mouth to be kissed.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered, taking hold of both of his wrists and pulling him to the bed. He hurriedly drew off his own clothes; once beneath the duvet, with the warmth of his young conservator's limbs clasped against his own, he pressed soft kisses to the sensitive spot just below his ear, and then down the length of his body, his desire heightened by the faint, broken moans Merlin was unable to hold back. By the time he settled himself on top, his hand closing urgently round both of them, Merlin was limp and quivering, and surprisingly submissive. The tips of his fingers traced a line of heat along Arthur's spine, teasing a groan out of his throat even as it spurred him on.

Afterwards, Merlin looked at him with eyes dreamy and half-closed, drugged with pleasure, disheveled hair standing up in tufts every which way, and said, "What I don't understand is why you're in such a rush to do it. Why next month? It could…it could wait."

Arthur lowered his head to Merlin's shoulder. "Because," he said drowsily, but with a seriousness that Merlin, only half awake, could sense, "I don't want you panicking and running off, before we're legally bound and nobody can ever try and steal you from me." There was a pause. "Not," he added, feeling obligated to lighten the moment, "that anybody in his or her right mind would want to."

Merlin's little puff of laughter stirred the sweat-dampened strands of golden hair on Arthur's brow. "Possessive…dollop-head," he said, yawning, and was asleep before Arthur could come up with an appropriate response.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Mordred Spills the Beans, and Dinner with Gaius**

"_Mer_lin, you idiot!"

Arthur looked with consternation at his mug of coffee, into which Merlin had just poured a stream of orange juice.

Merlin stared at the carton in his hand and turned crimson.

"Sorry, Arthur," he muttered, opening the refrigerator and frowning accusingly at the carton of milk. "They look the same, and I thought—"

"You didn't think," growled Arthur, but he was grinning – this time his mildly sardonic, lopsided grin with one corner of his mouth turned up – and he reached out from where he was seated at the kitchen table and wrapped one arm round Merlin's slender hips.

Merlin put the orange juice in the fridge and retrieved the milk, puffing out his cheeks in exasperation.

"That reminds me," said his Assistant Director, pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee with his free hand. "We've run out of lactose free milk. I keep forgetting to buy some on the way home. You should have reminded me; I had too much on my mind, yesterday."

"It's not my fault you mind goes south after five o'clock on Fridays," Merlin said, imitating Arthur's voice at its most obnoxious.

"Well, it's not _my_ fault you're allergic to everything," Arthur retorted. "And what do you mean, my mind goes south?"

"Oh, nothing," Merlin mumbled, "Now if you'd just release me, I'm going to go and check my emails."

"I've already checked mine," said Arthur smugly. "Nothing from…er, from London. Gwaine's meeting Lance at The Griffin again next week, and asked if we'd join them. Oh, and Mordred sent an email to say that he doesn't have classes this Wednesday – some sort of administrative workday for the teachers – so could he please come to the Institute and sit in on our staff meeting."

"Nobody's likely to object," Merlin said. "But we'll need to stock up on chocolate chip scones for tea. And something for the morning coffee break…I take it Mordred doesn't drink coffee yet?"

"I'm rubbish when it comes to figuring out what children like," Arthur murmured, wrinkling his brow, and then glancing at the kitchen window. "Bloody hell! It's raining! Why does it always have to bloody rain on Saturday?"

"Were you going to go out?" Merlin asked, watching a scowl begin to play across his Assistant Director's beautifully sculpted face, his expressive, mobile features. "It's freezing, and the weather report says, the rain might turn to snow this afternoon."

"Well," Arthur said, looking resignedly at the rain-spattered windowpane. "I was thinking of going for a run in Central Park. With the weather the way it's been, I haven't been outside much, and I don't want to get out of shape."

Merlin gave him a dubious look. He didn't think he'd noticed any change in Arthur's physique or energy level; if anything, he seemed to be even more energetic than usual – in certain respects, anyway.

"I can get some work done this morning, I suppose," Arthur mused, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table. "Then what do you say to a nap before lunch?"

"Right," said Merlin in a neutral voice. "A nap." He knew perfectly well that, for Arthur, naps rarely meant sleep, or even rest.

Arthur was already on his feet, heading for the study. "I've got to send an email to an art dealer in Bath. He has a manuscript, of all things, and thinks we ought to see it. He said it should be of particular interest, to us."

"In _Bath_?" Merlin asked, surprised. "What's he selling, Roman antiquities?"

"No, you clot, he has a late medieval manuscript, something about legendary heroes and great kings. Of about the same date as our Courtiers Tapestry, in fact. He says it's important that we see it – he won't say why – and he's offering to let us look at it before anybody else."

"Really," muttered Merlin skeptically. "And why should he do that?"

"We're related…well, related by marriage, anyway. His sister is the wife of my cousin, Bedivere Pendragon-Jones."

"Oh," said Merlin, rolling his eyes. "And what's his name? The dealer, I mean."

"Pelles Fisher-King. He used to have a shop in London, but he's doing quite well in Bath."

"I love all these hyphenated names in your family," Merlin muttered wryly. "I hope they're not going to start calling me Merlin Emrys-Pendragon."

"Merlin Pendragon-Emrys," Arthur said, smiling broadly.

"No," said Merlin, firmly. "Not a chance. Neither one."

"We can discuss it at naptime, Merlin," Arthur said cheerfully as he disappeared through the study door.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I think Pendragon-Emrys sounds rather impressive," Arthur said, yawning. "But I certainly don't mind if you want to keep your own name as it is."

"No matter what happens," Merlin said sleepily, "I'm definitely keeping my name as it is."

Arthur moved a little beneath Merlin's modest weight. "Very well, Mr Emrys," he said quietly. "As you wish." The fingers of one hand twined themselves in Merlin's dark hair, letting the silky strands slip between them, then brushing lightly down over the back of his neck. Merlin shifted his legs, still sandwiched between Arthur's, and Arthur flinched ever so slightly.

"Mind your knees, _Mer_lin," he murmured. "And…ow!...if you would just get your elbow out of my ribs…"

"Can you never say please?" whispered Merlin, but he complied instantly, drawing the offending elbow in against his own side. His head was resting on Arthur's chest, and Arthur closed his eyes contentedly as he felt the warmth of his conservator's breath drift lightly across his skin.

"Before I forget," he said with an effort, tickling Merlin along his own ribs to make certain he was awake, "Gaius emailed me. He's getting to be much more friendly with his computer these days. He wants us to have dinner with him Wednesday night. What should I tell him?"

He didn't realize that less than a year ago he would have made the decision himself, without bothering to ask Merlin whether he wanted to go or not.

"Mmmph," replied Merlin and as Arthur, hovering on the edge of sleep, was incapable of saying anything further, he decided to take that as an affirmative.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In spite of an additional six inches of snow on the streets, dumped there by the second snowstorm of the winter, the mood at the Pendragon Institute was upbeat when the staff arrived for work on Monday.

Remarkably, given the weather, everybody seemed to be in an excellent mood. Gwen and Lance continually made goo-goo eyes at each other in the hallway ("And they're married, for God's sake!" exclaimed Morgana), Gaius, cheered by the timely delivery of a large box of Jaffa Cakes from one of his London relatives, smiled happily as he stirred up an odd-smelling batch of glue, and Will was positively bright eyed and far less sarcastic than usual. It didn't take long for Merlin to discover that this was because his childhood friend had been spending some of his nights with a pretty redhead who worked at the nearby Italian bookstore.

(Merlin had a fondness for the bookstore, as it had been one of the unofficial meeting places for himself and Arthur, back in the days when they had been on the DL.)

On Tuesday night there was another snowfall, and Wednesday morning witnessed Manhattanites struggling to dig their cars out of what had by now become well over a foot of white stuff. As most tried to do this before work, Arthur and Merlin were wakened shortly before seven by the sounds of shovels scraping against the pavement, drivers attempting to start their motors, and faint curses drifting up from the street.

"I know _American_ males are supposed to be obsessed with their cars," Merlin mumbled as Arthur stirred and yawned. "But I had no idea engine noises could get _you_ so excited." He raised his eyebrows as something very solid brushed against his hip.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said grumpily, flinging back the duvet. "If I hadn't told Morgana I'd be in early today, I'd make you swallow your words, along with something else."

Merlin simply lay back on the pillows, smiling slightly at the indignant expression on his Assistant Director's face, and at his very obviously (now that he'd thrown off all the bedclothes) engorged state.

"You can have the shower first," he said generously and closed his eyes, leaving Arthur to bundle a toweling robe round his nakedness before vanishing into the bathroom, grumbling under his breath.

"Do you have everything you need for the staff meeting?" Merlin asked later, as they stepped out of their building and into a snowdrift. "Remember Mordred will be there today. I bought some fruit scones; they didn't have chocolate chip ones at the bakery."

"Great," said Arthur. "I don't suppose we'll need to entertain him. He'll sit down with a physics textbook, or some ponderous journals on art conservation, and won't say a word, as usual, unless somebody asks him a question."

"He's sitting in on the staff meeting," Merlin reminded him, one eye on the snowy pavement, the other on the traffic light. "You told him he could."

"Great," Arthur said again, adopting an expression of saintly patience. "Why can't the boy make snowballs and build snow forts like other kids his age?"

Their conversation was interrupted by angry shouts from car owners as a snow plough came roaring down the street, neatly clearing the asphalt of snow by pushing it to the left and right – reburying the parked vehicles that had only just been excavated.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In spite of Mordred's lack of communication skills (at least, when it came to adults), the staff of the Institute had made something of a pet of him. The ladies pampered him shamelessly, offering him sweets, rushing to the staff lounge to make him hot cocoa, and fussing over him in a manner that made his older half brother roll his eyes. They oohed and aahed over Mordred's pale little face, light blue eyes, and dark hair, and told him how handsome he was going to be when he grew up, until even he began to look mildly embarrassed by the attention.

The only female member of staff who did not fuss over Mordred was Catrina (yet another of the museum's expat Brits), who had charge of the information desk. She muttered crossly about how everyone was spoiling Uther's younger son, how he would be better off back in London with his parents, and how shameful it was that he was picking up American slang. Fortunately, nobody paid any attention to her, as it was common knowledge that she was infatuated with Uther (and had, decades ago, harbored dreams of marrying him), thought little of Arthur, and referred to Merlin (even if under her breath) as Arthur's fancy boy.

("I do wish we could sack her," Morgana had said on more than one occasion. "But she's been here for eons, and as much as she dislikes most of us, she does the work she's supposed to do. Visitors don't object to her, perhaps because she's still quite attractive. I just wish she weren't such a troll.")

The staff meeting that day was held in the staff lounge, on Mordred's behalf, and also to enable the participants to refresh themselves with tea or coffee. Morgana had brought chocolate covered biscuits, Merlin deposited the fruit scones on the table next to the coffee maker and the usual pile of crumpets, and Gaius kindly donated a portion of his stash of Jaffa Cakes. Once everybody had settled into chairs with their beverages of choice, Arthur opened the meeting with a review of attendance figures, new loan requests from other museums (many of which were eager to borrow the Courtiers Tapestry), and the announcement that he would be taking a month's time in London in the near future.

"Possibly as early as next month," he said, noting the curiosity and speculation on the faces of his staff. "I'm not quite certain, but of course I'll inform all of you as soon as I know."

"Why this time of year?" Will murmured, narrowing his eyes.

Arthur was blessed (some might say cursed) with a natural air of command, and when he addressed his museum staff it was usually in a voice of authority and calm self-assurance. At this moment, however, his eyes went to the papers in his hand, and he spoke more hurriedly than it was his custom to do.

"For several reasons," he began, avoiding Morgana's eyes and keeping his own away from his junior conservator. "There's an important manuscript that needs looking at. Our old friend Pelles Fisher-King has it. And, I, um, have other things to attend to. Oh, and, um, Merlin will be coming with me."

"Really?" Lance interrupted with a look of lively curiosity. "What for?"

"Yes, why?" Geoffrey Monmouth queried over the rim of his teacup.

"Have some cocoa, Mordred," Arthur said. "And don't scoff the Jaffa Cakes in one go."

"_Must_ Merlin look at the manuscript?" Will grumbled. "We need him to take care of our own."

"Oh look," Arthur said. "It's snowing again."

"Couldn't we all go in March?" Mordred exclaimed suddenly, ignoring the proffered cocoa. "When I have my Spring Break? Morgana will want to go as well."

"Why?" Will said, surprised. "Why should you _all_ go?"

"Of course Morgana will want to be there," Mordred continued in his matter-of-fact treble. "When Arthur and Merlin get married. She wouldn't miss it."

In the enthusiastic uproar that followed, a number of mugs were knocked over, and several crumpets were trampled underfoot. With an effort, Arthur restrained himself from flinging his hands in the air; Leon grinned at him sympathetically; Merlin turned as pale as a ghost and then went rather pink; Will's jaw dropped and Gwen clasped her hands with delight as Morgana shot a triumphant glance in the direction of her stepbrother.

Lance, the model of good manners as well as honorable character, stepped across the room and held out his hand to the Assistant Director, who was standing as though frozen, next to the coffee maker.

"Congratulations, Arthur," he said earnestly, and Arthur took his hand and shook it, at a loss for anything to say.

"Well, old man, I couldn't be happier for you," murmured Geoffrey, patting Arthur on the shoulder. "He's a fine, er, a fine young fellow, er, conservator."

Gwen flung her arms round a paralyzed Merlin, and kissed him on the cheek. "It's perfect," she said, beaming and blinking madly. "Oh, it's perfect, Merlin. Arthur! It's what I've wanted for both of you for months."

"Really," said Arthur a little dryly. "I can see there's no keeping secrets around this place." He handed a large muffin to his half brother. "Here, Mordred. This should just about fit your mouth."

"Holding out on me, were you, mate?" Will said with a broad smile, jostling Merlin with his elbow. "I thought as much. You'll still speak to me when you're a member of the high and mighty Pendragon clan, eh?"

Merlin's blue eyes were those of a deer in the headlights, but Will slung an arm round his shoulders and laughed.

Arthur cleared his throat several times. "If we could get back to business," he said, raising his voice above the tumult, "I think we should look at this list of prospective loans. I – I truly appreciate your, um…but we still have a museum to run."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gaius' flat was warm and cozy, and resembled a picture Beatrix Potter or Arthur Rackham might have painted, or perhaps an illustration from one of the Brambly Hedge children's books by Jill Barklem. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, photographs in old frames stood on top of a venerable-looking wooden sideboard, and a worktable at one end of the sitting room was strewn with unidentifiable objects and bunches of herbs.

"A hobby," Gaius said when he caught Merlin staring. "I read up on medieval herbology. It's interesting to see what they used, and how they used it. It's related to our field, anyway, as plants were often used to make colored paints."

After the tumultuous events – well, event – of the day, Arthur and Merlin had left the Institute at half past five, and taken a taxi to Gaius' building. Gaius had departed fifteen minutes earlier, "to get everything ready," and he met them at the door to his flat, looking slightly flushed from the heat emanating from his kitchen.

"Help yourself to drinks," he said almost apologetically, ushering them into his sitting room, where a nook at one end served as a dining area. "I mustn't burn the bread."

He trotted back into the kitchen, leaving his guests to make themselves at home. Arthur, who had visited any number of times, sat down on the sofa, but Merlin wandered about the room, looking at everything with respectful curiosity.

"You mustn't be angry with Mordred," Gaius ventured a little later, as they sat down at his dining table, neatly set with old china oddly but interestingly paired with sleek, modern-looking cutlery. "He's just a boy, and he was trying to be helpful."

"I'm not angry," replied Arthur, his lips twitching with amusement. "And it's partly my own fault. I should have said something to him beforehand. He's such an intense, introverted child…I'm hoping life in New York will help him become a bit more socialized. It probably never occurred to him that this wasn't the sort of thing one blurts out in front of a roomful of people who aren't family."

Both men glanced at Merlin, who had recovered from his earlier shock and embarrassment, but was now staring at his plate, and looking all of eighteen rather than twenty-five as he determinedly ladled surprising quantities of food into his mouth.

"You'll get hiccups," Gaius remonstrated as Merlin attacked a slice of bread.

"Perhaps Mordred's right," Arthur said, smiling ruefully at his Head of Conservation. (At the back of his mind, he was strategizing his later activities with Merlin, and hoping that a great deal of sex would put his junior conservator into a less nervous frame of mind.) "Perhaps we should wait until March. It wouldn't be fair to exclude my own brother, and if I exclude Morgana she'll conjure up an army of the dead and annihilate me."

"You'd best tell Uther as soon as possible," Gaius murmured. Arthur frowned and Merlin dropped his fork onto the floor.

"You do realize, Arthur," Gaius said in a kindly voice. "Your father…well, I've known him for many years, and he's never been particularly demonstrative. He doesn't show his feelings easily. But he's followed your accomplishments from afar, and approves of the way you've developed as a museum director. He approves of your scholarly work as well. I think you can rest assured that he is immensely proud of you."

"I can think of something he doesn't approve of," Merlin mumbled, and then nearly jumped as Arthur kicked him gently under the table.

"He knows you are a man of intelligence, honor, and integrity. You are, after all. Isn't he, Merlin?"

"Oh, he's all right," Merlin said in a low voice. Arthur pretended to throw his dinner roll at his head (still wondering whether gentle sex or very energetic sex would be more appropriate for later on).

"I should think he's a great deal more than that, Merlin," Gaius said reprovingly as he stood up and went to the kitchen to fetch another basketful of bread.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Merlin's Wardrobe, Among Other Things**

To: apendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: utherpendragon_at_albion_inc_dot_org

Subject: Your visit in March

_You are of course welcome to stay at with us when you fly over to London in March. The renovations to our Belgravia home are finally complete, and we expect to move back in within the next two weeks. Naturally, your old room will be waiting for you. I understand that you wish to look at Pelles F-K's manuscript, which I have only seen in jpeg form, via an email attachment. As for the other thing, I hope that you will continue to think it over. You are no longer of an age where I can tell you what to do in your private life, but I think you are well aware of my feelings on the matter. Your stepmother sends her love. Your affectionate father. _

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As he lay awake, listening to the night noises of the city – sporadic traffic sounds muffled by the curtains and closed window, the occasional barking dog or band of drunken students singing and laughing their way down the street – Merlin wondered whether Arthur had owned a teddy bear, or some other cuddly stuffed toy, in his early childhood. Arthur generally slept on his back or on his side, and it often happened that Merlin would half-wake in the middle of the night to find himself clutched tightly against his Assistant Director. It wasn't that he minded; he didn't. It was comforting to feel that solid body (which generated heat like a stove on these chilly winter nights) against his skin. He could press his nose against Arthur's neck, ease one leg over his, and go back to sleep feeling warm, protected, and safe.

If there was light enough to see by, and Merlin was not particularly tired, he sometimes lay awake for a while, just to _look_. Arthur's beauty was entirely masculine: from the very first time he had seen him without any clothes, Merlin had been impressed by the breadth of his chest, the muscle and sinew that rippled beneath the smooth skin of his strong shoulders; he had the athletic build of an Italian Renaissance sculpture without being overly muscular. It amused Merlin that he never looked vulnerable except when he was asleep.

The morning after Gaius' dinner, Merlin (who had fallen asleep flat on his back, on his own side of the bed) awoke snugly tucked in the crook of Arthur's arm, with Arthur snoring gently into his hair. So when the alarm clock rang, and Arthur rolled out of bed looking refreshed and only mildly in need of coffee, Merlin asked him if he had ever had a favorite toy that he slept with as a boy.

To his surprise, Arthur actually frowned.

"I had a plushy stuffed tiger I was rather fond of," he said, pushing his disheveled hair out of his eyes. "It was soft, almost like a pillow, and I slept with it every night."

"Oh?" said Merlin encouragingly, thinking of the Calvin and Hobbes cartoons. "Do you still have it? I mean, is it still in the London house?"

"No," said Arthur, shrugging and making a face. "Father got rid of it, when I was away at school. I must have been about Mordred's age."

"He did what!" Merlin almost shouted, appalled.

"He chucked it out," Arthur replied with a half smile. "Said I was too old to be sleeping with a baby's toy."

Merlin diplomatically refrained from saying what he was thinking of Uther at the moment.

Arthur was not quite as diplomatic. "Speaking of being too old for things," he murmured, eyeing the pile of clean laundry next to the clothes closet. "Are you actually going to go on wearing those ancient tee shirts until they fall apart on your body?"

"What's wrong with them?" Merlin asked, a little defensively. "I like them."

"Well, obviously some of them are collector's items, and you'll want to keep them for posterity," Arthur said musingly, pointing at the Beatles tee shirt on the top of the pile. "But others…I'm just…"

"They're comfortable," Merlin insisted. "And you've never minded them before." He cocked his head to one side and looked at the suits, jackets, silk ties, and Brooks Brothers shirts hanging in Arthur's side of the closet. "You're not going to try to transform me into something I'm not, are you, Professor Higgins?

"…just trying to help you look more professional. And those wretched kerchiefs round your neck—" Arthur continued as if he hadn't heard, but Merlin had him there.

"I don't have a choice," he announced triumphantly. "I _have_ to wear them, at least once or twice a week, because you bite—"

"_Mer_lin!" growled Arthur, but Merlin could see that he was suppressing a grin.

"Do you want to change me, Arthur?" he said wistfully. Almost on cue, he remembered what Will had told him long ago: that Arthur Pendragon only went out with glamorous, stylish, and elegant women and men.

Before he could say anything else, Arthur had crossed the room and was holding him by the shoulders.

"You're an idiot, Merlin," he said, tightening his grip on his junior conservator. "D'you think I want you so that I can change you into something else? I'd have to be mad. There isn't one thing about you I'd change, for pity's sake. Not your stubbornness or your waywardness, not your irritating backtalk or your idiotic…" he paused for breath and could see that Merlin's expression had softened, whilst a hint of a smile seemed to be lurking behind his widened eyes.

"The next thing I know, you'll be telling me you like my ears and my elbows and my accent," Merlin said.

"Well, I bloody well do," snapped Arthur. "I'm clearly insane enough to lo- to like everything about you." He pulled Merlin against him and nipped at the cupid's bow of his upper lip. "But really, Merlin, some of those shirts—"

Merlin kissed him properly, to shut him up, and drew away regretfully a few minutes later, because it was a work day, and nearly past breakfast time.

"I'll make the coffee, then," he offered as Arthur got his breath back. "When you're in the shower. It's my turn to make breakfast anyway."

"Right," mumbled Arthur, glancing in the mirror. "Ugh. Why is my hair so sticky?" It was standing up in little blond peaks on the top of his head.

"Erm," said Merlin. "Let's not go there." He dodged briskly as Arthur tried to grab him. "Coffee and toast in five minutes. I suppose you want some of those disgusting bacon bits with eggs?"

Fifteen minutes after breakfast, Arthur was dressed and ready to leave, standing by the door, when Merlin appeared wearing a dark blue tee shirt that was probably older than he was, ornamented on the front with a well-worn image of The Who.

"You're joking," Arthur said, pretending to be thoroughly exasperated. "What did I just tell you?"

"You may be my boss," Merlin said firmly. "But you can't tell me what to wear. I get out my formal kit when I have to go to auction houses, or other museums, or we have visiting curators or scholars, or—"

Arthur gave a histrionic sigh, but he was obviously amused.

"Alright then, _Mer_lin," he said, in the usual voice of command he knew Merlin would completely ignore. "We need to be at work before Morgana makes her appearance. If we're late by even five minutes, you know what people will be saying."

"No, what?" asked Merlin with genuine innocence, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Look, mate," Will said, peering into the Paper Conservaion studio, where Gaius and Merlin were putting away some recently cleaned pages of vellum. "Could you give me a hand with Lord Moldywart? I need to tip him to the side a bit, so I can have a look at his base."

"So you need my help?" Merlin asked absently, going to the sink to wash his hands.

"Well, he's heavy, isn't he," Will said irritably, raking fingers through his brown hair. "It'll take five minutes, just."

"Okay," Merlin said "Five minutes." He handed the last piece of vellum to Gaius, and followed Will into the Objects Conservation studio, next door. Lord Moldywart – a wooden figure, perhaps fourteenth century in date – stood in the center of the room, on top of a study piece of acid-free cardboard. The sculpture represented a nobleman of some sort, as one could tell by his elegant garb, but nobody had been able to determine who he was meant to be. Merlin had dubbed him "Lord Moldywart" because of the warty-looking, bubbling pigment and insect damage on one of his legs.

"Here," muttered Will. "Brace him while I tip him just a few inches. Right, like that."

"God, he's heavier than he looks," Merlin said, watching as his childhood friend knelt down and peered at the underside of the sculpture's base. "What do you see?"

Glumly, Will pointed to the scattering of darkish powder revealed beneath the figure. "Insect frass, and quite a lot. As I suspected."

"Oh no," came Gwen's voice from the doorway. "Insect droppings…not again. Didn't we have him treated last year?"

"We did," Merlin sighed, helping Will to set the sculpture upright again. "What can we do for you, Gwen?"

"Oh," said Gwen nonchalantly, smiling up at him. "Morgana and I thought you might like to come to lunch with us, Merlin."

Will snorted and pretended not to listen.

"Really?" asked Merlin, surprised. "I'm sorry, I've got too much to finish, today. Tomorrow would be fine. Was there something you needed to discuss?"

"Well," said Gwen in a confiding sort of voice. "Morgana and…well, she has some ideas about your, you know, _event_, and she thinks if she takes them to Arthur, he'll murder her. So she thought she'd talk about them to you, instead."

"Oh God," said Merlin.

"Um," Gwen half-whispered, looking embarrassed. "This wasn't my idea. But you know what Morgana's like when she gets enthusiastic about anything."

"Please tell me she's _not_ thinking about music, dancing, disco lights, and white tuxedos," Merlin whispered back in agonized tones.

"Gwen," called Gaius from the doorway. "You're needed upstairs!"

"Later, yeah?" Gwen murmured, patting Merlin's arm. "And don't worry. I expect we can talk her out of…whatever she has planned for the two of you."

Merlin smiled and gave an excessively melodramatic groan for her benefit as she headed for the door.

"Now you're in for it, you sorry git," muttered Will, sniggering. "Those girls won't leave you alone until you see things their way. Morgana won't, at least. Now, would your lordship be so kind as to help me sweep up the insect shit? We can send it to the lab for analysis tomorrow."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It had come as a relief to Merlin that, over the past year, Will's attitude towards Arthur had undergone quite a transformation. Ever since that now-famous evening when Arthur had knocked Valiant – one of the Metropolitan Museum's less savory conservators – unconscious at an exhibition opening party, Will had stopped referring to him, rather bitterly, as "that bloody toff," and "the Pendragon prince." He was now on friendly terms with him, no longer made disparaging comments about his wealth and privilege behind his back, and occasionally ribbed Merlin about the workout Arthur must be giving him in bed.

Nevertheless, Merlin was happy to escape from his childhood friend's good natured joking after Gwen's visit to Objects Conservation. (Her own Textile Conservation workroom was on the top floor.) He left Will glaring at Lord Moldywart's insect frass, returned to the Paper Conservation studio with a sense of relief, and worked diligently with Gaius until five o'clock.

"Off you go, my boy," Gaius said in a kindly voice, and Merlin wondered whether his anxiety about his and Arthur's plans having been "outed" was visible on his face.

"You'd better steer clear of Morgana," he said to Arthur two hours later, over their dinner of Indian take-away. "Ever since Mordred, erm—"

"Opened his big mouth, yes," Arthur said, looking anything but anxious. (If anything, he looked rather pleased with himself.)

"Gwen says Morgana's got ideas for the…the…I have this horrible feeling she's already thinking caterers and music and flowery hats, and a thousand guests in suits and organdy—"

"I've never seen an organdy suit in my life," said Arthur with a straight face, clenching his fists to keep from laughing.

"Oh, stop it, you know what I meant!" snapped Merlin. "Ladies in organdy! Anyway, Gwen says she's over the moon about the whole thing."

His Assistant Director laughed out loud, flinging his head back in the familiar gesture, and Merlin had to smile at the sight.

"Morgana should have been a military general," Arthur finally said, coughing into his napkin. "Poor old Leon! If she ever decides she wants to marry him, he'll need an army to fend her off."

"Perhaps he doesn't want to fend her off," Merlin replied. He watched as Arthur poured him a third glass of white wine.

"There isn't much left," Arthur said in explanation. "I want to get rid of the bottle."

"Arthur," Merlin said, raising his eyebrows. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Noooo," Arthur murmured judiciously. "This is just to help you _relax_. When you're drunk you simply fall asleep. And what I have in mind requires a very wakeful state."

"You're too much, Pendragon," Merlin said, attempting to sound severe.

"Too much is not enough," Arthur retorted. "Isn't that what the Texans say? I hope you've no objection? Besides, I'm tired of looking at that ridiculous tee shirt. I really do prefer you without it."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Merlin was out of bed very early. It was still dark, and Arthur was still sleeping, when he tiptoed into the study, closed the door behind him, and rang his mother in Ealdor.

"Merlin!" Hunith exclaimed delightedly at the sound of his voice. "I was hoping you'd ring me. How is Arthur?"

"He's, erm, great," replied her son, who then launched into the usual inquiries about her health, and their friends in the village, and the general state of Ealdor. He felt that he was making a good effort to sound cheerful; he had exhausted the subject of the local farms and livestock and was just getting on to the weather, when his mother interrupted him.

"What is it, darling?" she said gently, and Merlin realized, belatedly, that there was really no point in trying to hide anything from mothers, because they could almost always tell. "Is something the matter, or…?"

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, because it was the same voice she had used when he was a small child, coming to her with a scraped knee or torn shirt from climbing trees in the apple orchard. She had used that same, soft tone of voice later on, when he was older and had tried to hide a bloody nose, courtesy of one of the school bullies neither he nor Will had been able to ward off.

"Nothing's the matter," he said carefully. "I'm just…the Institute people know about the, you know, the plans for London, and, well, Uther isn't happy about it, naturally…"

"You and Arthur both knew he wouldn't be, I think," Hunith said calmly. "But Arthur's not a child, he's self-sufficient and intelligent, and his father needs to respect his choices. I won't speak ill of Uther – I can understand his concern. But once he's seen that you make his son happy and are good for him _and_ the Institute, he will probably come round. As for you, if you and Arthur are happy together…you are, aren't you?"

"I…yeah, I'm…I am," Merlin mumbled. He was sure of his own feelings, if nothing else, but was embarrassed to find himself wishing for the loving warmth of a maternal hug. "He, erm, I can't speak for him, but…"

"You're quite different from each other in so many respects," his mother said. "But you complement each other, if you know what I mean. When I saw you together in Ealdor, I thought…oh, you know, that old saying, two halves of the same coin and all that. So I shouldn't worry, darling. It will come out right."

When Merlin crept back into bed – the alarm wouldn't go off for another hour – he inched his way quietly under the duvet, not wanting to wake Arthur. But as he settled himself against his pillows, curled up on his side, a pair of strong arms encircled him, and Arthur's breath stirred his hair as he wrapped himself round his conservator's lean body in a gentle and sleepy embrace.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: The Great Dragon**

"Guess who's coming to lunch?" Will said to Merlin under his breath as they rolled a long worktable, its padded top covered with acid-free tissue paper, from Objects Conservation into the Paper Conservation studio.

"Hmmm?" mumbled Merlin, who had been paying very little attention. "What?"

"Lunch!" Will barked. "Guess who's coming?"

"Who?" asked his colleague, without much interest. His mind was entirely focused on the damaged gold leaf and lifting color pigments on the twelfth-century manuscript Gaius had set in front of him earlier that morning. That, and the incredible thing Arthur had done with his hands the night before.

"John Draca…you know, Head of Finance and Budget. He comes by to check up on us every so often, and to yell at us about unnecessary expenditures."

"Oh, The Great Dragon," said Merlin, using the name by which most of the Institute's staff affectionately (and sometimes not so affectionately) referred to him.

"What are you boys yammering on about?" Gaius asked, rather crossly, from the other side of the room. "I need that table stabilized now, please. And I do mean now." With a brush stuck behind one ear and his silvery hair in disarray, he looked anything but menacing, but both young men hurried to do his bidding.

"I don't know why that fellow bothers to come here at all," growled Will as he dealt with the brakes on the table's wheels. "All of our financial stuff is on the computer, and we send the files to him regularly. He can see everything that's going on here, in terms of funds, whenever he wants. I think he just visits because he enjoys giving us a hard time. He sent Arthur an email this morning; Gwen just told me."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mr Draca was not only the Insitute's Treasurer, he was also its primary legal counsel. As the letters after his name indicated, he had a law degree (from Harvard University), as well as a background in accounting. Whenever he made one of his sporadic appearances at the Institute, the entire staff—even Arthur, _even _Morgana—tiptoed around him carefully, wary of his acerbic wit as well as his flaming temper. Although he hailed from Derbyshire, he had spent a large part of his adult life in the States, Will's contention being that he had been driven from his home town by an angry mob wielding pitchforks and torches. When they had nothing else to do at lunchtime, the museum's staff often joked about his legendary temper (hence his nickname), and the fiery outbursts to which he treated them whenever the Institute's finances appeared to be in a tenuous condition. As he spent most of the year in an elegant townhouse in Washington, DC, it was Merlin's claim that he chose to live in the capitol because of the many lawyers available there for him to dine on.

"Dragons don't eat lawyers," Gwen scolded him. "They eat knights."

"Oh yeah, and how many knights do you suppose live in Washington?" Merlin snorted. "Lawyers are the next best thing. And they're probably fatter and tastier."

"But _he's_ a lawyer, Merlin," Gwen objected. "Why would he want to devour his colleagues?"

"Because he wants to be _top_ lawyer, obviously," Merlin replied, and would have expounded on this if Gaius hadn't tapped him on the shoulder and shaken his head disapprovingly.

"I have nothing against lawyers," said Merlin apologetically. "My cousin Ambrosius is one."

The senior staff was congregating in Arthur's spacious office, where the Assistant Director had just completed a telephone call to Le Lion d'Or, a nearby and very expensive restaurant. They would take The Dragon to lunch at twelve thirty, and attempt to mellow him with as much wine as he could drink.

"I shouldn't have to do that sort of thing," Arthur was complaining to his Curator of Arms and Armor. "Making luncheon reservations on the phone. I really ought to hire a full-time secretary."

Lance chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. However, Morgana, who had just swept into the room, raised her eyebrows.

"Too many people remember what it used to be like when the Institute hired secretaries for you," she said flatly. "Always pretty young women, most of whom you—"

"Morgana!" snarled the Assistant Director. "I did _not_. And shut up."

"Now _she_ would have been an excellent lawyer," Gwen said quietly to Merlin, pointing at Morgana with her chin. "Can't you see her grilling terrified baddies on the witness stand?"

"The Dra…John said he's arriving at noon," Arthur announced loudly to the room at large. "Everything's arranged; we'll take him out to lunch at twelve thirty. I hope he's on time," he added, lowering his voice. "I'm starving."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Although The Dragon arrived at the Institute promptly at noon, he announced that he wasn't hungry and would be glad to wait until one thirty for lunch.

"He's still picking the leftover bits of lawyer from between his teeth," Merlin whispered to Gwen. The Assistant Director, who was standing nearby, bit his lip with amusement but gave him a warning look.

"Actually, two would be ideal," murmured The Dragon, glancing at his watch.

"Ring up the restaurant, will you, and tell them we want to change our reservation to two o'clock," Arthur whispered to Morgana.

"Do it yourself," she snapped, but then thought better of it and dashed off to do as he had asked.

Merlin eyed The Dragon discreetly from the other side of the room. John H. Draca, Attorney at Law (as it said on his business cards), was a slightly-built man with a shock of gray hair beginning to go white, and a distinctive face that must have once been rather boyish, but was now seamed with wrinkles and creases. He had extremely sharp eyes and an even sharper stare; it became obvious that virtually everybody in the room was trying to avoid being the focus of it.

"Thank you, Arthur, we'll discuss upcoming expenses after lunch," The Dragon announced, as the Assistant Director offered him a small pile of folders and documents. His voice was even more distinctive than his face: smooth and mellifluous, but with a faint, raspy edge. It was easily recognizable, and every member of staff was familiar with the sensation of anxiety that struck the moment he or she answered the telephone and heard that voice on the line.

The Dragon hadn't spent time at the Institute in a little over two years, and he made the rounds of the room, shaking hands and chatting, with deceptive amiability, with everybody. He and Gaius even shared a laugh about "the old days," when Uther occupied the Director's office, and Arthur and his stepsister were mostly confined to the library when they visited, under Geoffrey Monmouth's watchful and exasperated eye. He spent half an hour explaining to Leon why he felt it was financially impractical to hire additional guards, and then complimented Gwen on the installation of the Courtiers Tapestry ("I notice the price of plexiglass has skyrocketed.") After congratulating her and Lance on their recent marriage, he finally made his way to where Merlin was standing.

"I've heard a great deal about you," said The Dragon, tilting his head to the side and looking at Merlin with some curiosity. "Your work's been garnering quite a lot of praise in museum circles. When Uther hired you – what was it, two years ago? – I wondered at the expense of getting a fourth conservator. But it seems you were worth it. Other museum conservators say it's like magic, absolute _magic_, what you're able to do."

"Erm," said Merlin, at a complete loss for words.

"Yes, magic. So, Mr…ah, young warlock," The Dragon continued, ignoring Merlin's tongue-tied state.

"Merlin," said Merlin nervously, realizing that The Great Dragon had forgotten his name.

"That's it," said The Dragon complacently. "Merlin. I trust you find the work here interesting?"

"Oh yes," Merlin replied earnestly, wondering if this was leading up to anything. "I…the collection of manuscripts is one of the best I've seen in the eastern U.S., outside of the Morgan. Better than the Metropolitan Museum's, I think. The work's great, I'm very happy here."

"So I understand," The Dragon said dryly, his eyes flickering in Arthur's direction. "Shall we go to lunch?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fortunately, most of the recent mini-blizzard had been cleared from the pavement, and the Institute's senior staff was able to lead The Dragon to the restaurant without anybody but Merlin tripping over chunks of ice or random heaps of snow. It was sunny and cold, and the light reflecting off snow-and-ice-covered cars was enough to make Arthur don his Ray Bans, whilst everybody else squinted helplessly.

Once the elegant and overpriced meals had been placed on the table, talk centered around future exhibitions, and the dreadful expense Uther's plans to expand the museum's gallery space would involve. Thankfully, no one said anything about civil unions or visits to London, but when The Dragon asked how Arthur and Morgana's little brother was settling in, and whether he was behaving himself, most staff members sniggered behind their hands.

"If you went through the galleries you've seen the work Merlin's done on some of our problematic manuscripts," Lance said to The Dragon, quickly changing the subject. "We're having them all re-photographed next week."

"Ah yes," said The Dragon through a mouthful of lobster salad. "Nicely done indeed, young warlock."

"And Gwen's putting together a handbook on the tapestry collection," Lance went on proudly.

"Splendid," said The Dragon, diving into his wineglass. "And of course you've all heard Uther's been named for a knighthood."

A deathly silence fell upon the table.

"Oh!" said Morgana, trying not to gawp. "Uh – really?"

"I'd only just heard," replied The Dragon, surprised at the senior curator's ignorance.

"Don't look at _me_," Arthur muttered to his stepsister as she turned an accusing stare in his direction. "I knew nothing about it."

"Surely your father's told you of this?" purred The Dragon, looking quizzically at the Assistant Director.

Arthur held out both hands in a gesture of puzzlement.

"The lines of communication appear to be awry, then," said The Dragon, looking both perplexed and smug. "Haven't you been in touch with him? I should have thought Uther would inform you, Arthur, and you, Morgana, before saying anything _to me_."

"I've been bogged down with fund-raising lately," Arthur said, shrugging. "So our recent conversations have been largely business related. I'm not surprised he told you about the knighthood, though; he's always wanted to keep you in the news loop."

"Just so," said The Dragon with satisfaction, shaking out his napkin. "Pass me the sugar, will you, young warlock? Why must such a fancy eating place brew such bitter coffee?"

Arthur noticed that The Dragon made no complaint about the expense of the meal he had just devoured, but he said nothing.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Should you like it if your father is knighted?" Merlin said much later, at home, after dinner and the television evening news. They were washed and ready for bed, and Merlin was staring out of the window at the city lights and not-too-distant treetops of Central Park.

"It has nothing to do with me," said Arthur, frowning and biting his lower lip. "It's not a hereditary title. If I want to be knighted, I'll have to qualify on my own, someday."

"_Do_ you want to be knighted?" asked Merlin, wondering vaguely whether the civil partner of a recipient of knighthood was addressed by any special title. He didn't think so.

"Not really," murmured Arthur, absent-mindedly toying with the rim of one of Merlin's ears.

"Why d'you suppose he didn't tell you or Morgana first?"

One corner of Arthur's mouth quirked, and he gave a desultory shrug. "He isn't exactly best pleased with either of us at the moment."

"Oh!" exclaimed Merlin, suddenly distracted. "I can't believe it. It's been snowing _again_." There was an almost childlike delight in his voice, and he leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched the windowpane.

Arthur watched him, noticing how Merlin's eyes sparkled at the sight of the newly fallen snow (which, before too long, would be trampled into a nasty gray slush by bustling Manhattan pedestrians). He had changed into a truly ancient sweatshirt, and Arthur's eyes fastened on the back of his neck, which rose, long and slender but clearly masculine, from the tattered fabric. The dark hair that came to a point on his nape accentuated its delicate pallor.

"Come to bed," Arthur said abruptly, standing up. "And no more talk about _knights_."

"It's not that I think Uth…that your father doesn't deserve one," Merlin said several minutes later, sitting up against the pillows and struggling to ease Arthur's shirt over his head. "I'm just curious. Does Elaine get to be called Lady Pendragon, then?"

"For God's sake, Merlin, I don't know," Arthur grumbled as the shirt came off. "I'm not exactly well up on the differences between ranks in the honors system…OBE, CBE, MBE, or whatever."

"Neither am I," murmured Merlin, pulling the duvet out of the way. Arthur gazed at the long line of his bare back, silver in the faint light from the streetlamps, with the appreciation of a connoisseur, but Merlin did not sit still to be admired. He pushed Arthur down and bent over him, running lips and fingertips over his collarbones.

It rather tickled Arthur when his junior conservator took on the role of sexual aggressor, but one thing was for certain: Merlin was a gentle lover, and the absent-minded awkwardness his colleagues had gotten used to was completely absent when he was in bed. In intimate situations he was more like the precise and careful Merlin of the Conservation studios: sure-handed, with a deft, sensitive touch and single-minded concentration. In their earliest encounters it had become obvious that Merlin had never had sex with a man, before Arthur, but what he lacked in experience he had made up for in enthusiasm and intuition. Since then, he had become quite adept at a multitude of…things (he was, as he said of himself, a fast learner), but he was always considerate in the midst of his passion. What was remarkable was that he gave the impression of yielding even when he was at his most demanding. Even Arthur, some of whose past bed partners had been highly skilled in the erotic arts, had never known anything like it. (He had wondered, more than once, whether Merlin had been just as irresistible when making love with his girlfriends – and suspected that he had been.)

"Very nicely done, young warlock," Arthur said, after, imitating The Dragon's vocal inflections – and Merlin promptly thwacked him over the head with a pillow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: The Lady Morgana Turns to the Dark Side**

_From: mordredpen_at_yahoo_dot_com_

_To: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org_

_Dear Arthur, I've asked Morgana to get airline reservations for us, for when we all go to London. She says you and Merlin have to go there earlier, because you can't get your license, or whatever it is, until you've been there for two weeks or something like that. Please say that I can come for the wedding, or whatever it's called. Father may say no, but I don't care. Thanks for all the choc bars, I like the new caramel flavored ones. Mordred._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was hardly an exaggeration to say that the staff of the Pendragon Institute breathed more easily once The Dragon had taken himself off. He caught an Amtrak Acela train back to Washington, and Will theorized that he was going home to prepare a long list of complaints about museum expenditures, which would be emailed to them sometime before spring.

"Spring isn't all that distant," muttered the Head of Conservation. "Really, I don't understand why John was so displeased with our purchase of B-72. We couldn't have held some of our sculptures together without it. Especially John the Baptist. You remember the trouble we had with him last summer, Merlin?"

"Of course, Gaius," said Merlin. "And we should probably lay in some more. B-72, I mean. But I understand there's a new liquid compound that's supposed to be as good, if not better."

"He wants us to draw up a chart of estimated expenses for next year," Gaius went on. "I'll need some figures from both of you as soon as possible."

"I don't have a clue…" Merlin began, but Will simply shrugged.

"Oh, make something up," he said, ignoring Gaius' snort of protest. "You should be able to do a rough estimate for next year's projects, oh brilliant young warlock."

"Shut up," his colleague mumbled, rolling his eyes. "And don't call me that."

"The Dragon started it," Will responded, rolling his own. "It quite suits you."

"Thanks," said Merlin, frowning. "I'll just factor the cost of a purple robe with stars and crescent moons on it, and a pointy hat, into the budget."

Will laughed, but they could hear Gaius tutting fretfully at his worktable, so they abandoned the subject and went back to work with a vengeance. By one o'clock they were famished, and Will (who had gone back to Objects Conservation chuckling under his breath) reappeared, coat slung over his arm.

"Ready for Starbucks, then?" he asked Merlin, referring to their usual lunchtime destination.

"Two seconds," Merlin said, surveying the gold leaf he had just stabilized with a doubtful eye. "I think I need a double shot of espresso."

"I'd watch out for milady Morgana today, if I were you," Will murmured as they made their way up the basement stairs, pulling on their overcoats at the same time. "She's been smirking since yesterday; a bad sign. I think she may have a plan in mind for you, you and your lord and master."

"My…_Will_! Shut up! I have no lord and master, thanks very much."

"That's what _you_ think," replied Will, smirking almost as intently as Morgana. "As I've said before, Arthur isn't a bad sort, for somebody from his background. But my guess is he's as possessive as they come. Deny that if you can."

Merlin muttered something that sounded like dire imprecations into the collar of his coat, but made no denial, and Will's grin broadened perceptibly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur ate his lunch (a sandwich from one of the local coffee shops) in the staff lounge, and headed back to his office feeling oddly woozy and light headed. On the way, he stopped twice to sneeze into his handkerchief, attracting the attention of a small group of museum visitors, fashionably-dressed youngish women who ogled him shamelessly. Striding past them, he made it to his office door, but when he stepped inside he found Morgana waiting for him.

"Oh no," he groaned, and put his hands to his head, which, strangely enough, was starting to ache. "What is it now?"

"Wedding jitters, is it?" she asked, patting her braided hair and adjusting a jeweled hair clip. "You pore fing."

"No," replied Arthur in a chilly voice. "I think I've got a cold. Now, which of your schemes are you here about? You _do_ realize that when you're in your LeFay the Conqueror mode, every member of staff fears for his or her life?"

"Not everyone has to die," Morgana said sunnily.

"That's reassuring," muttered her stepbrother, sitting down. "So…what's wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_," said Morgana, pacing in front of his desk. "I've just been thinking. About your, you know, your civil union thing. And how Mordred wants to go—"

"Yes, I know," Arthur said. "He sent me an email. Well, I suppose it's only fair, he's my brother."

"…and now Gwen wants to go, and of course Gaius…"

"Morgana, for pity's sake. I'm, that is, we're, not going to make a big fuss of this thing. We'll go to London, get it done, and then come back here – _atchoo!_"

"You can't possibly think we're going to let you go off and do this on your own," murmured his stepsister, sitting down on the sofa across from his desk.

"I'm not doing it on my own," Arthur said, mopping up with his handkerchief. "But that's not the point. What's this _we_? And who's going to see to things here, if half the staff is away?"

"Oh, the place can run itself for a week or so," Morgana said briskly. "You'd be surprised."

"Yes, I would be," Arthur retorted. "_Atchoo!_"

"Chicken soup – that's what you need," Morgana stated decidedly. "But I've been thinking about your ceremony, and—"

"Ceremony? There is no ceremony," said Arthur, acidly. "Once the waiting period is over, you sign the bloody paper, and that's an end to it."

"Oh no, you don't!" Morgana said sharply. "You're not going to do your family and closest friends out of an excuse for a party, are you?"

"Party…what party?" roared her stepbrother, slamming his hand on the desk. "This is a private matter, Morgs, not a public spectacle. We can all have a champagne lunch later on."

"I've been thinking about white flowers and white linen tablecloths," Morgana said dreamily. "And a lovely white—"

"Not a chance," Arthur broke in, standing up and walking to the door. He opened it and gestured in the direction of the hall. "And don't you say a word of any of this to…to Merlin. He's nervous enough about the whole procedure as it is."

"Who can blame him?" snapped Morgana as she made her exit. "Imagine being tied to you for life. Perhaps I should purchase a ten-year supply of Valium for his wedding present." She jumped as the door was slammed loudly behind her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"We don't have to think about packing for weeks yet," Arthur said to Merlin as they finished washing up the dinner dishes. During the work week they often ate take-away, but on this particular night Merlin had attempted an interesting-looking dish that resembled a meatloaf yet contained no meat.

"Packing…for London, you mean?" Merlin asked in a small voice as they headed for the bedroom to sort out clothes for the following day.

Under normal circumstances, the hesitancy in Merlin's question would have encouraged Arthur to push him against the wall, enfold him in a ferocious embrace, press his mouth to that pale, tempting throat, and call him an idiot. However, Arthur's headache had worsened, his throat felt scratchy, and his voice was beginning to sound has though his vocal cords had been muffled with cotton wool. So he simply nodded curtly before opening his closet door and peering inside.

"I expect you'll want me to bring every decent article of clothing I own," Merlin said gloomily, glowering at the clean laundry stacked at the foot of the bed.

"Don't be such a girl, _Mer_lin," said Arthur, coughing. "We're not going on holiday."

"Holiday? What's a holiday?" Merlin asked, pawing through the pile of laundry as though he expected it to bite him. "The Institute should increase its number of paid holidays, not to mention the number of days allowed for personal leave of absence."

"God's sake, Merlin," Arthur said. "Stop whinging."

"I'm not whinging," said Merlin, with dignity. "I'm expressing an opinion."

"Well, stop expressing it so loudly," Arthur grumbled. "I have a headache."

Merlin was about to say that he wasn't speaking loudly, and that Arthur was being a complete prat, as usual, but when he took a closer look at his Assistant Director he noticed that Arthur's face was faintly flushed, his eyelids looked heavy, and a light sweat stood out on his forehead.

"Arthur!" he murmured, putting a hand on his Assistant Director's brow. "I think you have a fever."

Arthur felt the slender palm press lightly against his temple and groaned. "I can't be ill," he said irritably, but he leaned into the coolness of Merlin's touch. "I have a fund-raiser next week, and—" A bout of coughing interrupted his sentence, and he sagged back into an armchair, looking thoroughly annoyed.

Like many people with strong constitutions, Arthur had a tendency to despise any signs of physical weakness in himself. He was so seldom ill that when he did come down with a cold or virus he became extremely short-tempered and impatient, not only with himself but with anybody around him. The very thought of being confined to bed made him livid, and he glared at Merlin as though it were his fault and his fault alone.

"If I'm not better by tomorrow," he muttered, sniffling as Merlin brandished a thermometer in his face, "I'll have to murder somebody."

"Me, I suppose," Merlin said in a matter-of-fact voice as he looked about for tissues.

"Immediately, and without hesitation," Arthur replied before Merlin shoved the thermometer into his mouth.

It became evident that Arthur did indeed have a low-grade fever, and his sniffling was getting worse by the minute. Feeling horribly put upon, he sat grumbling as Merlin turned back the bedclothes, plumped up the pillows, and turned off the bright overhead light, switching on the bedside lamp instead. Moments later Merlin tugged him to his feet and helped him undress, batting Arthur's hands away when he attempted to return the favor. As soon as he was in bed Merlin vanished for ten minutes, only to return with a bowl of something hot and steaming, an empty mug, and a pot of tea.

"Tea with lemon and honey," he said in explanation, setting the tray laden with teapot, mug and bowl on the bedside table. "And chicken soup."

He spoke as if offering up the latest wonder drug and Arthur was tempted to laugh.

"Thanks," he said gruffly, and helped himself to the honeyed tea, which, blissfully, had an almost immediate soothing effect on his throat. "When I was little – before Father married Elaine – I had a nanny called Pudding, and she used to give me milk tea with honey if I was 'feeling poorly.'"

"A nanny called _Pudding_?" said Merlin, nearly falling over with amusement.

"Well, her name was Perdita, but I suppose I couldn't say it properly," mumbled Arthur, flushing slightly. "It was _easier_ to call her Pudding."

Merlin had turned away but Arthur could still hear him cackling with laughter.

"She used to call me her little prince," Arthur said. "Prince Arthur. She was kind, and conscientious, but she was also very practical and a little brusque. She never really mothered or petted me much."

"Oh," said Merlin, feeling his heart turn over.

"I was very fond of her," Arthur went on, musingly. "But of course all of my friends had mothers. I always felt I was missing out on something…even though I'd never known my real mum."

"I never knew my father," Merlin said, trying to sound casual because it wasn't often that Arthur spoke so frankly about his childhood. "But I didn't give it much thought when I was a child. So I never really knew if I was missing anything or not."

Arthur had been curious about Merlin's absent father for some time, but had refrained from asking anything about him. All he knew was that he was Irish, well, half Welsh (hence the name Emrys), had worked in art conservation, and also as an archaeological excavator. What had he been like? What had he looked like? Hunith, Merlin's mother, was still an attractive woman, but it was obvious that Merlin's looks hadn't come from her. Those long, lean limbs and changeable, dark blue eyes, that dark hair and ivory skin, probably owed a great deal to the long-lost Mr Emrys' set of genes.

"My mother didn't speak of him much," Merlin went on. "But when she did, it was with affection…I'm sure she missed him. She used to say, 'Oh, Bal was clever with his hands, just like you. But that wanderlust; he never wanted to stay in one place.'"

"Did…did she ever say that you look anything like him?" Arthur croaked, reaching for his soup.

"I've one photograph, back in Ealdor. I got my coloring from him, it seems," said Merlin, wrinkling his forehead. "And perhaps my abilities as a conservator, such as they are."

"Oh, stop being so bloody modest," growled Arthur, but he smiled as he said it.

"But I didn't get his nose, apparently," Merlin said, tapping his straight, slender appendage with one finger. "Or mouth. And the gods only know where these ears came from."

Arthur chuckled, and then coughed a great deal.

"I hope it isn't the flu," said Merlin worriedly. "Leon said he thought he might be getting it."

"No flu," said Arthur flatly. "I don't have muscle aches or anything like that. It's just this headache, and my nose and my throat. The rest of me's fine."

"Right," said Merlin in a voice of utter disbelief. "The rest of you's strong as a bull."

"It is," replied Arthur, narrowing his eyes. "And if it weren't for the fact that I don't want _you_ to catch this thing, I'd prove it to you right now."

"Don't you dare even try," Merlin said warningly, evading Arthur's hands and standing up. "I think you should stay at home, tomorrow."

"I'm not _that_ sick," insisted his Assistant Director, pounding the bed with one fist and nearly knocking over his bowl of soup. "And stop telling me what I should or shouldn't do, you imbecile."

Merlin heaved a sigh of exasperation, but he relented at the sight of the frustration on Arthur's face, the feverish brilliance of his eyes and pink flush across his cheekbones, the fair hair tousled against the pillow. It was impossible for him to be angry when his Assistant Director looked so miserable.

"Prat," he said, with an awkward kind of tenderness, and went off to get another pot of tea.

* * *

**Thanks to MonicaOP for asking me about Merlin's dad. I realize I haven't mentioned him since the first PI story (in Chapter 27).**

**I know I've jumped the gun a little by including quotes from the second to last episode of Series 3, which airs in the States next week. (I hope SyFy doesn't cut scenes from it, as they've done in the past.) But I promise I haven't included any spoilers for those who haven't seen it.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: What Gwaine Wants**

"Don't forget we're meeting Gwaine tonight after work," Lance said to Merlin when they bumped into each other in the hallway.

"We are? Oh. We are," Merlin mumbled absent mindedly. He was feeling mildly sleepy – nothing a good double espresso wouldn't cure – and he had completely forgotten about Gwaine's standing invitation.

Arthur's cold had subsided; during the first night of his fever, however, he had tossed and turned until well after midnight until finally subsiding, his face against Merlin's shoulder, Merlin's hand gently stroking his hair. After that, he had stayed at home for only one day, lounging grouchily in bed, watching reruns of old movies and downing cup after cup of tea with lemon and honey. Merlin had rung him up him twice, only to hear Arthur snarl that he was coming to work tomorrow even if he had the plague, and that he _didn't care_ if the rest of the Institute caught the plague from him and died because he had a mountain of work on his desk, and a fund-raiser the week after.

Morgana, perhaps feeling a trifle guilty for having agitated him on the day he fell ill, had visited Arthur during her lunch hour, fussed over him intolerably (according to his later account), and presented him with more chicken soup, as well as cough syrup and decongestant pills, "so you'll stop snorting like a pig." Mordred rang him up later in the afternoon, after school, and, upon Arthur's announcement that he had the plague, calmly informed him that it couldn't possibly be the plague, because there were no flea-infested rats at the Institute, and unless he was vomiting blood and had a high fever with pain and swellings in his armpits and groin, he was probably dealing with a mild case of flu or the common cold.

"Can you believe the boy?" Arthur had said to Merlin that same evening. "He told me to stop panicking, because even if I ever _did_ have the plague, it could be cured with antibiotics. I told _him_ I was only joking, and he was completely nonplussed. Why must he take things so literally? He probably still thinks you're afraid of ginger people."

"That's just the way he is," Merlin replied, thinking of Mordred's uncanny stare, and then surveying the wreck Arthur had made of the bedclothes. "He might outgrow it. Perhaps he'll go into medicine, into research in diseases. How's your fever? I take it you have no swelling in your armpits and groin."

"Not that kind," said Arthur, raising the duvet and looking down the length of his torso. "However...oh, look! If you'd just put your hand here—"

"No way," said Merlin, taking a step back. "Not until you're better. Shall I fetch you an aspirin?"

Arthur had given a melodramatic eye-roll, and Merlin had thoughtfully retreated.

"So…" Lance was saying, looking at his watch. "If we meet in the entrance hall a little after five…"

"Right," agreed Merlin, hoping Gaius wasn't going to fuss if he couldn't stay late to finish up his current work on a sixteenth-century Book of Hours. He had been laboring on that particular manuscript for days. "Would you remind Arthur, Lance? I've got to go back downstairs. Where is it Gwaine wants us to meet him?"

"Downtown, in Greenwich Village," sighed Lance, smiling and shaking his head. "I think he's planning to take us round to several places. He usually winds things up in the East Village, at a place called Gedref's Labyrinth…which is rather a dive."

"Really?" said Merlin, curiously. "Sounds…interesting. Does Gwaine, erm, make a habit of this?"

"Pub crawling, you mean?" Lance asked, an eyebrow raised. "Sometimes he stays put. In one place. If he likes the wait staff, and the service, and there's a horde of pretty girls on the premises. But he often prefers to vary the surroundings."

"Good job it's Friday," Merlin said apprehensively, and Lance burst out laughing.

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"How's the beard coming?" Lance asked as Arthur strolled into the entrance hall at ten minutes past five.

Since the first day of his cold, Arthur hadn't shaved, and had just gotten past the stubble stage. When Merlin asked him over breakfast why he had suddenly decided to grow facial hair, Arthur had shrugged, grinned a bit self-consciously, and said that he had always wanted to see what he looked like with a beard.

"I doubt I'll keep it, once I have one, but it'll save some time in the mornings, not having to shave," he murmured. "You can grow one as well…that could be interesting."

"I'll think it over," Merlin replied with a little smile, fingering his chin doubtfully. "I don't know…it might be good for a laugh, at any rate."

Arthur had looked his jawline over consideringly, and then run the side of his hand along Merlin's cheekbone, and his fingers over the soft fullness of his lips. This had led to other things, naturally, most of which took place on or around the kitchen table as well as on the floor.

"Like teenagers," Merlin commented, still breathing fast as Arthur stood up and then pulled him to his feet. "We'll be late unless we take a cab."

At work, in the Conservation studio, he had asked his colleagues what they would think of his growing a beard. Will howled with laughter, but Gaius had patted him on the shoulder and said that it wouldn't do any harm, and might even supply them all with a modicum of daily entertainment.

"Gwaine's got a good beard," Arthur said as he, Merlin, and Lance walked to the subway station. "I'll ask him how long it took to get that way."

"Speaking of beards," said Merlin, dodging to avoid a skateboarder, "is Leon coming along as well?"

"He might meet us there," Lance said. "He said he'd like to."

"If Morgana lets him off the leash," Arthur muttered. "I doubt that _she'll_ show up, though. She and Gwen were thinking of having a girls' night out, and she said she had no desire to see a group of grown men get completely pissed and make fools of themselves."

"I suppose Gwaine might have a lady friend with him?" Merlin said, and Lance shrugged.

"He might," he said, smiling. "Sometimes he does. Other times, he just cruises the room until he finds somebody who appeals to him. And it isn't always a girl. But I doubt he'll go home alone. What Gwaine wants, he usually gets."

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Gwaine was waiting for them in Sheridan Square, in the West Village. When Arthur, Lance, and Merlin emerged from the subway station into crowds of locals, New York University students, tourists, and youthful stoners, they saw him leaning against a tall, wrought-iron fence, his leather jacket partially unfastened, the breeze blowing through his thick, wavy brown hair.

"He looks like an advertisement for a pricey men's cologne, or Calvin Klein jeans," Lance murmured under his breath, and Merlin chuckled.

"Ralph Lauren, maybe, or Abercrombie and Fitch," Lance added wryly, as Gwaine abandoned the fence and sauntered over in their direction.

Gwaine shook hands with Arthur and Lance, and clapped Merlin on the back.

"I've been asking Lance to bring you along some Friday," he said, ushering them toward a door in on of the old brick-walled buildings facing the square.

The first pub Gwaine took them into was a deceptively sedate-looking establishment with photographs of famous New York journalists of the 1960s and 70s on wood paneled walls. As it turned out, it was a popular hangout for many currently active journalists, some of whom seemed to be on first name terms with Gwaine. They settled at a small table with their drinks, and Arthur checked his mobile for messages from Leon. Then a basketball game suddenly erupted on the TV screen above the bar, and the room filled up with shouting, jostling men.

"Shall we move on, gentlemen?" Gwaine asked, maneuvering his way through the crowd with a half-empty pint in one hand and a smart phone in the other. "We can head for the East Village, or stay in this area…it doesn't much matter to me."

"Leon's on his way," Arthur shouted, over the roaring of the basketball fans. "He said to give him five minutes; he'll meet us outside."

It took them nearly five minutes to wriggle their way through the crowd and out the door, during which time they were elbowed and shoved by the enthusiastic, inebriated clientele, as names like Amare Stoudemire and Lebron James were shouted above their heads. Outside, in the cold air of the square, they caught their breath and were relieved to see Leon loping across the street, waving his arms to catch their attention.

"She let you out, then," Arthur said to his Head of Security. Merlin rolled his eyes, but Leon took this ribbing with good-natured equanimity, and fell into step beside Lance. Ten minutes later, they were ensconced in another, much quieter, pub not far from the first, with their second round of drinks. Merlin, restricting himself to seltzer and lime, watched Gwaine down a tall glass of Long Island Iced Tea ("You know that doesn't have a drop of tea in it!" hissed Leon) with a practiced ease.

"Dylan Thomas used to drink here," Gwaine explained, gesturing at the room, which had a comfortable air of bohemian informality. "And _Bob_ Dylan as well."

"And now?" asked Merlin, glancing around in the hope of seeing recognizable faces from the New York literary or music scene.

"Now Gwaine drinks here," said Gwaine smugly, draining the last drops of his Long Island Iced Tea.

Perhaps this second venue was too quiet for Gwaine, who eventually bundled them all into two taxis and headed for the East Village. There, he led them into a place ominously named Gedref's Labyrinth, and found them a table not too far from the bar.

"Gedref's _Labyrinth_?" Arthur said to Merlin under his breath. "I hope that doesn't mean it's impossible to find the loo when you need it."

"Which you're going to," Merlin replied, looking at the frothy pint in his Assistant Director's hand.

Whatever the state of the toilet facilities, Gedref's Labyrinth had a much seedier atmosphere and appearance than the pubs they had visited earlier, and the customers looked somewhat rough around the edges. One or two eyed Arthur's tie and well-cut jacket with raised eyebrows. Gwaine, on the other hand, seemed to feel quite at home there, spoke cheerfully to the robust looking woman behind the bar, calling her by name (Mary), and encouraged his companions to make themselves comfortable and ignore the gits sending them odd looks from the other side of the room.

Mary came to the table to take their food orders, her place behind the bar taken by a large, beefy man with an amiable grin ("My cousin Fred.") She swatted Gwaine over the head, smiled at his comrades, and patted Merlin's cheek, calling him a "handsome fellow." Arthur, Lance and Leon finally wandered over to the bar, leaving Merlin to watch Gwaine deal handily with his pint of Guinness.

Two long-haired young girls, who probably had only just attained the legal drinking age, slid past their table, giggling and whispering to each other after glancing at Gwaine's rugged yet neatly sculpted profile, framed by the waves of his rich brown hair. Merlin raised an eyebrow.

"They were looking at you," he said, and almost laughed when Gwaine rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

"They're infants," he murmured, smiling. "Adorable, but they're just kids. Anyway, the night's young. I don't always need to have a lady by my side, as nice as that is."

"Lance says you're very popular," Merlin ventured, and Gwaine shrugged.

"Ah," he said musingly. "I've always gotten by. But I seem to have a knack for fancying people who are unavailable."

"Not Gwen!" Merlin exclaimed before he could stop himself.

Gwaine squinted down at the foam topping off his Guinness. "No," he said, sounding amused. "Not Gwen. She's a lovely girl, of course, and I wouldn't have turned her away if I found her sitting on my bed one night…before she married Lance, naturally. But no, I was thinking of somebody else entirely."

"And this person's not interested?" asked Merlin a little absently, looking across the room to where Arthur and Lance were collecting their pints at the bar.

"I'm afraid not," came the casual reply. "At least, I'm fairly certain not." Merlin turned to face him, and found that Gwaine was looking him straight in the eyes.

"Well, you'll never know unless you ask, will you?" Merlin said, and then as soon as the words left his lips, a horrible suspicion struck him and he wished he had kept his mouth shut.

Gwaine lounged back in his chair, all bright eyes and lazy smile, sinuous, catlike body, and innuendo. "If I thought there was a chance for me…well, never mind. When do you two fly out to London?"

With a gesture, he indicated the Institute's Assistant Director, still standing by the bar.

Merlin breathed an almost audible sigh of relief, relief that he hadn't had to play stupid, or that he hadn't had to say, "Please stop now."

"Oh…Lance told you? About…erm, well. We haven't made reservations as yet, but we're thinking mid to late M-March. When young Mordred has his spring break."

Gwaine opened his mouth to reply, but an increase in the volume of conversations at the bar made them both turn their heads. Leaning forward in his chair, Merlin could see that one of the more sodden looking patrons had hooked a finger in Mary's waistband, partly pulling her across the bar, as he shouted some sort of angry criticism in her face. Not surprisingly, Arthur was in the process of intervening, although he was speaking in a quiet and level voice as he pushed the man back. Merlin got to his feet at the moment that the sodden customer turned from Mary only to swing his fist in the direction of Arthur's face.

"Bloody hell," muttered Gwaine, getting to his own feet. "Now they're in a bit of a pickle," and he strode towards the altercation before Merlin could say a word. Arthur had evaded the customer's blow with ease (merely leaning back a little), blocking a second swing with his forearm, but the customer's friends, an equally sodden foursome of very large men, were charging towards the bar.

"Here now, Jack, there's no need for any of this," Mary was saying, but Jack and his mates paid her absolutely no attention, simply lunging (drunkenly) at Arthur and, by extension, Lance. From the look of things, Lance was perfectly willing to use force to fend them off, and was as handy with his fists as Arthur, so that within seconds the two were embroiled in a classic example of a bar fight.

"Bloody hell," Gwaine said again, but he was grinning as he ploughed into Arthur's opponents, fists flying. Leon, emerging from the Men's Room, took one look, and joined the fray with a vengeance. It seemed as though the room was filled with men throwing punches and crashing into tables; drinks were spilling all over the place, and Merlin was wondering whether he should join in – he had never been much of a fighter and would probably only get in the way – when one of Jack's more ungainly friends staggered backward into him, knocking over his table in the process.

"Fuckin' _urghhh_," bellowed Jack's mate, looking round for somebody to blame, and fixing a bloodshot eye on Merlin. His meaty fist flew in Merlin's general direction, and Merlin managed – mostly by fluke – to knock him to the floor with an elbow to the sternum.

Jack's mate was on his feet less than thirty seconds later, and would have hurled himself onto his accidental opponent, but Merlin found himself gently but firmly pushed aside as Arthur stepped forward from behind him and delivered a precise right hook that sent Jack's unfortunate friend back to the floor.

"That's enough!" shouted Mary, who had emerged from behind the bar. "Take it outside, if you have to, but I'm calling the cops if you don't break it up."

"Awwwww, Mary, I didn't mean nuthin'," mumbled Jack from the pool of beer in which (thanks to Gwaine) he was lying, partly propped up against a stool. Gwaine chuckled and promptly poured a pitcher of sangria over his head.

"Such a waste, eh?" he said, winking at Merlin. Ten minutes later, he and a wobbling Jack had been set to mopping up the floor by an irate Mary, and he waved goodbye to Lance and the others, who had been told to go home and "sleep it off."

"I'm not drunk," Lance protested, but Leon hauled him out of the pub unceremoniously. Gwaine was swabbing away at the floor with a flourish, and although the two barely-legal girls had vanished, several young woman of a more appropriate age had materialized, and were staring at him with undisguised admiration.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once home, Merlin stole a look at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. Both of them were rumpled and their clothes were stained with splashes of beer, but Arthur was sporting a black and blue mark below his left eye and a swollen lip. Before Merlin could offer him the first use of the shower, a telephone call came in from Mordred ("What is he doing awake at this hour?"), and Arthur sat down in the study to take it, whilst Merlin showered and brushed his teeth. Not long after he came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry, Arthur left the study and passed him in the hallway, _whistling_, his eyes almost unnaturally bright with what looked like exuberance. It was obvious that the very macho events of the evening had actually put him into a gleeful mood.

Merlin wasn't given much time to think about the events of the evening, because no sooner had Arthur emerged from the shower than he practically tossed Merlin onto the bed and flung himself down seconds later. His kisses were hungry and intense, and his hands clutched Merlin to him with an almost feverish possessiveness; Merlin had the feeling that there would be bruises tomorrow.

"Arthur—" he began, reprovingly; he was about to say "Is this because of that bar fight?" – but Arthur growled (he actually _growled!_) and flipped him neatly onto his stomach. A moment later, he felt Arthur's weight spread across his back, and his teeth were grazing his shoulder as he pressed Merlin into the already rumpled sheets and pillows.

"I've read about this in books," Merlin panted, coming up for air. "In the old days, men came home from battle, all pumped up with conquest and testosterone, and jumped on their…_ah, aaahhhh!_" as Arthur pushed in with almost nothing in the way of preparation. Merlin's face was against the pillow and he felt Arthur pressing urgent kisses between his shoulder blades and up and down his nape, his breathing harsh and rapid. "Sorry," gasped Arthur indistinctly, into his hair. "Was that too…?" "A bit late to ask, isn't it," Merlin thought somewhere at the back of his mind, but there was an obvious disconnect between his brain and his mouth, and the only sounds that emerged from his lips, every time Arthur moved, were beyond embarrassing. They usually did this face to face, and much less savagely, yet Arthur's sudden fierce and driving dominance was exciting in a way Merlin vaguely hoped wasn't pervy. They twisted and turned like a pair of coupled dolphins in the ocean, and the conclusion, when it came, was white-hot and explosive.

The next morning Arthur eyed his bruised lip and cheekbone in the mirror with the manly satisfaction of a Spartan freshly returned from battle, or the survivor of a medieval knightly melee, and sat down at the breakfast table with his shoulders back and his head held high. He wolfed down massive quantities of food with the pride of a conquering hero, and Merlin suspected that Gwaine was doing the same, unless he was still asleep in the arms of whichever awe-struck girl he had gone home with.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Playing Hide and Seek with Morgana LeFay**

_To: memrys_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org_

_From: MLeFay_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org_

_Subject: Your main event_

_Dear Merlin, my stepbrother refuses to talk to me about your Big Event. Typical. I hope that you aren't averse to a little chat with me. It's my studied opinion that you could both use a little help planning this thing out. I will see you at work on Monday. Morgana_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_To: utherpendragon_at_albion_inc_dot_org_

_From: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org_

_Subject: Congratulations_

_Dear Father: First of all, may I offer my congratulations on your pending elevation to the rank of Knight Bachelor. It's absolutely splendid, and I will ring you on Sunday to hear all about it. Elaine must be thrilled. I suppose she'll organize a reception or dinner, and Pendragons (what's left of us) will gather from far and wide. I've explained to Mordred that this does not mean that you need to own a sword or any other medieval implement. He said he tried to ring you yesterday, but the call wouldn't go through. He was quite annoyed, and complained about how transducers convert electrical energy into sound waves, and how this must have been disrupted, but I can't say that I understood a word of what he was saying. Incidentally, he insists on coming to London for the event involving myself and Merlin. The two of us need to be in residence, in London, for seven and then fifteen days before the signing, so we plan to arrive sometime around the middle of March. I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow. Please give my love to Elaine. Arthur._

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Arthur's demeanor of confidence and self-assurance was in high gear on the day after the pub fight, which, fortunately, was a Saturday. However, although he appeared to swagger a bit more than usual, to Merlin he was unusually courteous, and by the time evening arrived he had not once called him an idiot.

"Oh, the complexity that is Arthur Pendragon," Merlin said with very gentle sarcasm over dinner.

"Shut up, _Mer_lin," Arthur replied, returning to his customary asperity. "Don't be an idiot."

"Uther must be in despair," murmured his junior conservator, breaking his own rule never to mention He Who Must Not Be Named more than once a week. "Just think – the disgrace of having an idiot in the family."

To his surprise, this made Arthur laugh for several minutes, and when he finally stopped guffawing he wiped his eyes with his dinner napkin and then rumpled Merlin's hair vigorously with one hand.

"It wasn't _that_ funny," protested Merlin, attempting to smooth down his hair and foreseeing a very steamy night.

"Yes it was," said Arthur, absently fingering his very-early-stage beard. "I've just sent Father an email, as a matter of fact. Advising him that we would be coming to London to do the deed, probably in mid March. Congratulating him on his knighthood. Oh, and telling him not to mind about having an idiot in the family."

"Perhaps idiocy runs in my family," replied Merlin solemnly. "Like arrogance gallops in yours."

"Hmmmm," Arthur said, with an ambiguous smile, and Merlin fully expected a torrent of friendly but ferocious verbal abuse to descend upon his head. However, Arthur remained silent, merely giving Merlin a look that was positively smoking with the inclination to pull him into the bedroom and tear his clothes off.

Really, Arthur's sex drive was remarkably…Merlin couldn't think of the right adjective.

"When did U…your father find out about his knighthood?" Merlin asked, returning to the original subject.

"He made the New Year's list, of course," answered Arthur, in a tone of voice that said: _perhaps we can find something better to talk about, Merlin. _

"How's your…?" asked his junior conservator, pointing to the bruise beneath his eye; the swollen lip was already beginning to subside.

"Doesn't hurt," Arthur murmured, touching it gingerly. "The gods only know how Gwaine does that sort of thing every Friday. It's a miracle he's still walking and talking."

Merlin thought of Gwaine's partial revelation in Gedref's Labyrinth, and blushed. Then he glanced at Arthur, hoping he hadn't noticed, which he hadn't; he was still busy inspecting his bruise, and fingering his jaw, where somebody had punched him. Gwaine…well, Merlin liked Gwaine, everyone liked him, but he had never expected to be on the receiving end of Gwaine's, erm, roving attentions.

Hopefully, those attentions would keep on roving, and Gwaine would find other people to be infatuated with.

"It was quite an evening," Merlin made himself say in response to Arthur's comment. "And perhaps he doesn't get into a fight _every_ Friday. I hope nobody lives above that pub. I mean, things got terribly loud."

"Not me," stated Arthur loftily. "I'm never _loud_."

Merlin thought of Arthur's triumphant shout of release, the night before, that had quite drowned out his own muffled cry into the pillow, but decided that to mention this would probably result in his being ravished at the dinner table.

The uncommon politeness Arthur had displayed earlier in the day was quite gone; he was back to his old self, and as they finished their meal and proceeded to the washing up, Merlin heard himself cheerfully and affectionately labeled an idiot, an imbecile, and a hopeless lunatic within the space of twenty minutes. He responded by calling his Assistant Director an arrogant, condescending clotpole, and stalking off to the shower with a completely phony air of wounded pride. He suspected that Arthur's courtesy of that morning and afternoon had been a way of making up for his vigorous dominance of the previous night, and got into bed not knowing quite what to expect.

Arthur slid under the bedclothes smiling, and Merlin braced himself for a repeat performance (which would be titillating yet completely exhausting). But Arthur cupped his face in his hands and kissed the corners of his mouth, his lowered eyelids, and the angled lines of his cheekbones before closing with him gradually, until their bodies were pressed together from shoulder to thigh like a silken, electric caress. His hands were gentle and easy and when he could hear Merlin panting with need, he offered himself with such unexpected sweetness that Merlin was as astonished as he was touched.

When it was over and they lay tangled up in each other's arms and legs, Arthur nuzzled Merlin's ear and whispered, "Do we have plans for tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Merlin said fuzzily. "Tomorrow's Sunday…no, I don't think we have anything planned."

"Good," murmured Arthur, yawning. "We can stay in bed until late, then. That is, after we wake up."

"You…you're…" Merlin sputtered, into Arthur's shoulder. "Were you always so, erm…with your other…?"

"No," Arthur said, eyes closed. "No, not really. Were you?"

Merlin gave a little burst of laughter, but he was far too sleepy to go on laughing. Instead, his fingers curled themselves lightly with Arthur's, and stayed that way until he fell asleep.

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On Monday they awoke to a terrific rainstorm, and appeared at the Institute very nearly soaked, in spite of their umbrellas. Merlin left his umbrella and soggy raincoat in his tiny office, checked his in-house emails (Morgana had left three messages saying she wanted to talk to him), and made his way downstairs to the Conservation studios, where he found the Head of Conservation staring in a meditative way at a sixteenth century manuscript on one of the worktables.

It was a splendid volume known as a Tournament Book, filled with images of knights on horseback and depicting in great detail the trappings, armor, tunics, helmets and crests worn by the contestants in various tourneys. The colors were rich and bright – even the horses were elaborately decked out – and the figures carefully drawn; it was a feast for the eyes. This had not been the case two months earlier, when many of the pages had shown severe creasing, and the edges of the paper had exhibited rips and tears. Merlin had been laboring over it for weeks, and he had not yet shown the almost completed conservation work to Gaius.

"I'll finish off the last bit today," Merlin said as he approached the table. The tears in the paper had been mended and were now invisible; the once creased pages were smooth and flat. "Just need to clean the surface of the last page. Then you can look at it…at the entire book."

"Take it upstairs this afternoon, and we can look at it in Arthur's office," Gaius replied. "He's as eager to see it as I am."

At that moment, Will put his head through the door. "Gwen and I want to have a look as well," he said, eyeing the manuscript with curiosity. "So we'll join you, if we may." Then: "I passed Morgana in the hall, upstairs, and she said she'd be down to talk to you before coffee break, Merlin. She had that determined sort of look in her eye, and wouldn't tell me what it was about."

"Oh," said Merlin, and surveyed the room nervously.

"No point in scarpering, is there?" Will said sympathetically. "I mean, there's no place to hide, mate."

"No," replied Merlin. "No place to hide."

"She's been a bit witchy lately, eh?" Will murmured. "I mean, as much as I like and respect her…God, I hope she didn't catch that attitude from Morgause."

"Now then, Will," said Gaius, a little sharply, and Will shut his mouth obligingly.

"I'll have to face the music sometime," Merlin said philosophically, but Gaius put a hand on his arm in a fatherly fashion.

"She'll calm down," he murmured with a wry smile. "She gets these enthusiasms…in this case it's your upcoming, um, union or whatever it's called, but she usually eases up a bit after a while. It's like dealing with a thoroughbred racehorse."

Merlin had the feeling that Morgana would not appreciate being compared to a horse, but he simply smiled back and shrugged his shoulders. Gaius chuckled, and then suddenly handed Merlin a box filled with what looked like skeins of colored wool.

"I forgot to give this to Gwen, last week," he said in a conspiratorial voice. "She's in the galleries; could you take this up and hand it to her? She needs it for her work on the Hunt Tapestry. And perhaps you could talk to her about whether some of the metallic threads need reinforcing."

"Thanks, Gaius," Merlin muttered gratefully as he headed for the door. He was only putting off the inevitable; Morgana would catch up with him sooner or later. But a work-related conference with Gwen would keep the senior curator at bay at least until _after_ their coffee break.

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Gwen was in Gallery Three, examining a surcoat embroidered with a dragon emblem, that was displayed over a suit of chain mail, when she saw Merlin walking across the room towards her, a cardboard box in his arms.

Although the gallery was crowded with visitors, including a class of high school students and their harried teacher, it was easy to distinguish the Institute's junior conservator from the various museum goers. The black hair and pale face, the eyes that looked dark from a distance but were really a clear, deep blue, the walk that combined litheness with a kind of stumbling grace – there was no mistaking Merlin Emrys. One would be hard put, Gwen mused fondly, to find anybody else who so effectively embodied an endearing awkwardness and an unquestionable physical appeal in one and the same body.

"Oh, Merlin – is that for the Hunt Tapestry?" she said delightedly as Merlin reached her and held out the box. "Thank you! And thank Gaius for me, will you?"

"He told me to ask you about the metallic threads," Merlin mumbled, scanning the room for any signs of the senior curator. "Oh…how's Lance? I didn't see him this morning, and we had quite a night out with Gwaine, Friday."

Gwen instantly began to giggle. "Lance has gone pub crawling with Gwaine before," she said, rolling her eyes. "He didn't get excessively pissed, Friday night. But from what I understand, you boys had quite the adventure. I suppose Gwaine picked up an available young lovely at the Labyrinth? To quote some movie, I forget which, the man is a walking gland."

"Erm," Merlin began, and then felt his face get hot with embarrassment. Gwen shot him a keen look, but made no comment. Instead, she made him laugh by telling him how she had caught Lance, Leon, and Arthur comparing bruises and cuts in a very manly fashion, in the staff lounge earlier that morning.

"I suppose you're dodging Morgana," she went on, giggling again. "The girl's positively drooling at the thought of organizing a wedding. And she knows she can't get anywhere by talking to Arthur. But don't mind her, she'll soon calm down."

"That's what Gaius said," Merlin responded, grimacing. He remained with Gwen until it was time for their coffee break, looking at the embroidery on the surcoat (which was holding up well), and discussing the various problems with the Hunt Tapestry. When they finally made their way to the staff lounge, they found the senior curator already within, wrestling with a filter that had gotten stuck in the coffee maker.

"Oh, Morgana," Merlin began feebly, but she cut him off abruptly.

"You've been avoiding me, my boy," she said sternly, tapping him on the cheek with one crimson-tipped finger. "There's no use in trying to do that, because we're going to be _related_. Well sort of, anyway."

Merlin glanced round at his colleagues, but everybody else was pointedly ignoring their conversation and politely congregating at the other end of the room.

"Obviously we can't talk now," Morgana continued. "But at some point we must sit down and have a little chat. Incidentally, Mordred's very happy. He thinks he'll have a better chance of getting his own way, career and education wise, with you in the family to back him up."

Merlin groaned, mentally. Yet another reason for Uther to object to him, no doubt.

"Mum's quite pleased as well," Morgana was saying brightly. "She's knitting you another sweater."

"I suppose Uther's knitting me a shroud?" Merlin managed to quip, and Morgana actually chortled with laughter.

Merlin took his mug of coffee and collapsed on the sofa next to Gwen, as Morgana wandered across the room in the general direction of Leon.

"They really are a complicated family," Gwen whispered, and Merlin sighed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later that afternoon, the Conservation staff congregated in the Assistant Director's office to examine the manuscript. The windows were tightly closed, but the rain beat against the glass with remarkable force, making a din like a distant drumroll. Even indoors the atmosphere was so humid that everybody – with the exception of Arthur, who was immaculate as always in his Armani jacket and tie – was beginning to look slightly wilted. Merlin brought the manuscript upstairs on a tray lined with foam core and a layer of acid-free tissue, and deposited it on Arthur's desk for them to look at.

"Ah," said Will, jabbing Merlin in the ribs. "Let's see what the young warlock's done this time."

It both amused and annoyed Merlin that his colleagues had taken to calling him – occasionally – by the nickname bestowed upon him by The Great Dragon. But he moved aside to give them a clear view, and stood a few feet away, watching them.

"That's…really very good," said Arthur, his approval tempered with cool professionalism. He raised his eyes to Merlin's and smiled. Gwen beamed at him, and Will whooped like a cowboy, slapping his friend on the back so enthusiastically that he stumbled.

"Merlin," rumbled Gaius, after giving the object a careful once-over and then peering at it with a magnifying glass. "You amaze me. We'll make a great warlock of you yet."

Merlin raised one eyebrow in a vain attempt to imitate his department head. "So you believe in me now?" he asked jokingly, wondering how in blazes Gaius was able to do that eyebrow thing without dislocating a facial muscle.

A roar of thunder made them all jump. "Well," Gaius muttered, successfully raising _both _eyebrows, "I would do…if you could just stop this blasted rain."

* * *

**Um, couldn't resist using a little dialogue from the very first season.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Merlin Thinks Things Over**

Arthur was in the study, proof-reading the text of a short article he had written for the Institute's quarterly Bulletin. Merlin could hear him quietly cursing every time he came across a typographical error.

He himself was prowling about the bedroom, going over and separating the clothes he wore to work and those he wore at home. His side of the closet had become an appalling mess (rather like his tiny office at the museum), and Arthur had given him a pointed look that morning as he pulled a pale blue shirt and darker blue silk tie out of _his_ section of the closet. Merlin surveyed his own office garments: jeans and black jeans, a few good shirts, some relatively new hoodies, long- and short-sleeved tees, and striped rugby jerseys. Arthur had (in spite of Merlin's loud protests) bought him several winter pullover shirts of fine wool, slimly cut, that didn't hang loosely on his thin frame the way his old tees did. There was the one good suit he wore to receptions and auction houses, and the tuxedo he had grudgingly purchased for himself at Brooks Brothers shortly before the "Valiant incident" at the Metropolitan Museum. Then there was the stylish Vivienne Westwood blazer Arthur had bought for him in London, hanging next to what Arthur referred to as his "deplorable excuse for a brown jacket." And that was all.

Merlin remembered Will's long ago comment that Arthur Pendragon only went out with glamorous and fashionable people. Ah well, poor Arthur, doomed to spend his life with an un-glamorous, un-fashionable idiot who spent most of his time clad in jeans and tees or striped rugby shirts. His clothes sense had improved slightly since he had come to work at the Institute, but he still had a tendency to reach into his closet and simply grab what came closest to hand.

In any case, it was plain as day that Arthur hadn't chosen him for the way he dressed or the crowd he belonged to. Merlin had never bothered to read up on material from the old society columns and gossip columns of various magazines and newspapers, but according to Will, Arthur had been photographed any number of times at high-end restaurants and museum benefit parties, in the company of some beautifully dressed young woman or elegant man. He had never been the subject of a Hollywood-style sex scandal or gotten involved with wild party types or so-called "celebrity fuckers" (he had selected his partners with care), but he _had _enjoyed quite a reputation as a sex-god amongst people in the art world and museum professionals. As for his partners – he had wooed them with candle-lit dinners and weekend trips to the Hamptons, or some such place, before making his move, and had been generous with tastefully chosen (never ostentatious) gifts. It made Merlin smile a little to hear of these things, because he hadn't experienced them.

Arthur had never wooed him; they had simply fallen into a pattern of slightly barbed, friendly banter and a camaraderie that had been – in the early days of Merlin's employment at the Institute – completely devoid of flirtatiousness. And he, Merlin, had been totally clueless. It had not in any way occurred to him that the handsome Assistant Director might find him interesting or appealing.

The realization that Arthur Pendragon was attracted to him, desired him, and the even more shocking realization that he could respond to this, emotionally and physically, had hit him like the proverbial thunderbolt. No sooner had they acknowledged these feelings to each other than they had flung themselves desperately into bed…something they had done repeatedly and secretively until the "Valiant incident" had outed them. Arthur had been quite calm about people knowing – he was, after all, accustomed to being in the limelight, and was in no way ashamed of his attachment to Merlin – and once publicity died down, and the paparazzi found other things to focus on, life had gone back to normal. Their behavior at the museum remained entirely professional, and they continued to banter, trade insults, and argue over work-related issues as they always had. The only changes were that everybody in the Institute knew about them (and most of them had suspected, anyway), and that You-Know-Who, that is, Uther Pendragon, had to deal with the fact that his son had fallen in love.

"_Mer_-lin," said Arthur, emerging from the study with his beautifully cut blond hair standing on end, where he had raked his fingers through it repeatedly.

"Hmmm?" replied Merlin, raising his eyebrows questioningly, and putting the pile of old shirts he had been examining back on the bed.

"Have you seen my file on the Institute's recent acquisitions?" his Assistant Director grumbled, his eyes flicking over the piles of books next to the bed, on the nightstand, and on one of the armchairs. "I think we should bring it with us to London…if we're going to go to Bath, to see old Pel, I'd like to show it to him."

"Old Pel?" asked Merlin, his mind having returned to the contents of the closet.

"Pelles Fisher-King, idiot," Arthur said amiably. "He wants to show us a manuscript, remember?"

"Oh yeah, your cousin by marriage, or whatever," Merlin replied. "Are we going to be inundated with a horde of arrogant Pendragons, then?"

"There aren't all that many of them," murmured Arthur, paying no attention to the insult and locating the missing file, shoved beneath a folded garment that turned out to be Merlin's seldom-used pyjama bottoms. "There are a couple of girl cousins. I remember when I was fifteen, and we used to visit them in Devon. We'd go on picnics, and I'd spend as much time as possible investigating the local shrubbery with their very eager school friends."

"You slut," said Merlin jokingly, and Arthur threw a cushion at him.

"They were pretty, as I recall," he went on, ignoring Merlin's rolling eyes. "The friends, I mean. Of course, when you're fifteen, any girl not averse to snogging in the bushes seems pretty."

"You didn't steal their virtue, I hope," said Merlin, trying to sound severe but failing completely.

"Certainly not," Arthur stated with conviction. "I never. Although mine had been stolen already…when I was fourteen."

"Really?" said Merlin with lively curiosity. "By whom?"

"Oh…the older sister of one of my friends," Arthur replied musingly. "She was seventeen, studying for her university exam, and was bored. So she seduced me in the back seat of her car."

"Sounds like fun," said Merlin, chuckling at the thought of a teenaged Arthur in the back seat of a car, his trousers down about his knees. "Was she on top?"

"_Merlin!_" snapped Arthur, drawing his eyebrows together. "I don't ask you for the details of your first time."

"I don't remember most of the details myself," Merlin said, smiling. "I mean, I was drunk, and she was only a little less drunk. But she obviously knew exactly how to—"

"Um, yes," said Arthur, biting his lip and staring at Merlin through narrowed eyes. "Well, was _she_ on top?"

"Not exactly," replied Merlin, wrinkling his brow. "We may have started out that way, but we were sort of rolling down a hillside, and sometimes she was on top, and sometimes I was, and by the time we reached the bottom—"

"I get the picture," said Arthur, still staring. "You country boys and girls."

"And we were right out in the open, for pity's sake," Merlin went on, remembering. "Anybody could've seen us. Of all the ridiculous…not that I'm likely to do anything like that again."

"You are most definitely _not_ going to do anything like that again," said Arthur, firmly. "You're _mine_." He spoke with the intense possessiveness that Merlin had become accustomed to, before grabbing the front of Merlin's ratty old tee shirt and yanking him in.

"Mmmph, urrf, Arfur," said Merlin several minutes later, attempting to disengage his mouth. "Hadn't you better finish…?" He jabbed his finger vaguely in the direction of the study.

Arthur sighed, took a deep breath, and released him, reluctantly. He was flushed, his hair was all blond feathers over his eyebrows, his mouth a little swollen. Merlin secretly loved it when he looked like this – so unlike the controlled, impeccably dressed and coifed junior ruler of the Institute.

"Bloody semi-colons and apostrophes," Arthur was muttering, looking as though his article was the last thing he wanted to think about. "I keep forgetting to put them in. Julian must want to kill me."

Julian was their freelance editor, who went over every word in anything written for the Institute' Bulletin, with a fine-toothed comb. He was very liberal with red ink and snapped at Arthur for any spelling error he might make (even as a typo). Morgana, who had also been snapped at for her negligence when it came to deadlines, suspected that he took great pleasure in correcting their grammar and spelling. Johnny, who designed the Bulletin's layout, was equally nitpicky and cranky about article length, footnotes, and the number of illustrations Arthur wanted to use.

"I am surrounded by intolerant people," Arthur was grumbling crossly as he headed back to the study.

"_I_ am a very tolerant person," Merlin said brightly. "Which is obvious, as I'm living with you."

"That statement falls under the category of punishable," said Arthur, suddenly looking more cheerful. "Just you wait."

"By the way," he added, before disappearing through the study door. "I hope you have a copy of your birth certificate. You'll need it for our, um, you-know-what."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin only thought sporadically about the you-know-what. Until Arthur's proposal, he had never given _any_ thought to the possibility of such a thing, or considered it necessary. He was with Arthur because he had come to love him, and had not believed that there was any reason for a legal bond. He felt absolutely no need to be connected to Arthur's wealth, his social position, his _family_. But this was what Arthur wanted, and because Arthur loved him and he wanted to make Arthur happy, this was what he was going to get.

The staff of the Institute seemed to be delighted by the prospect of a Pendragon-Emrys "marriage," and he knew Arthur's stepsister (as difficult a person as she could be), stepmother, and half brother were in favor of it. He had no illusions about Uther's feelings on the matter, however, and Uther was still the head of the Pendragon clan. A family Merlin didn't think he was going to fit into very comfortably.

About Uther. Well, he was a good museum director (Merlin had to give him credit for that), and had a good eye for important works of art. He was quite civil to Merlin on the few occasions when they had to be in each other's company. (Merlin also tried to give him credit for that.) He meant well, and endeavored to do right by his family, his museum, his associates, and the corporation (Albion Inc.) of which he was a board member. But Merlin had the distinct impression that if this were the Middle Ages, and Uther was a king, he would happily pooh-pooh the idea of trial by jury and make all the justice-type decisions by himself. Oh, and he would throw all skinny junior conservators in the dungeon, or send them into exile, to keep them as far away as possible from his golden-haired son, the crown prince.

He might even have their heads lopped off, or burn them at the stake.

Oh hell, he wasn't marrying _Uther_, he was marrying Arthur, and although Arthur was deferential to his father, and never rebelled against him _openly_, he was also a man who stood his ground when it came to what he believed was right. And he evidently felt it was right to enter into this civil union thingy with Merlin.

Merlin sighed and put his head in his hands.

In the meantime, there was Morgana's obsession with weddings to contend with. She seemed to be angling for some sort of ceremony involving flowers, guests, confetti, a receiving line, white cakes, and (Merlin shuddered) probably even _dancing_.

"I'm a terrible dancer," Merlin had said the day before.

"So?" Arthur replied. "This is something I need to know, because?"

"There is no way, absolutely no way, that I'm dancing with you after this…this thing, in front of your friends and family," Merlin had stated emphatically.

"Thank God," Arthur had replied tartly. "I've no desire to have my feet trodden on and knees bruised only hours before I drag you to the nuptial bed and ravish you senseless."

Well, that was one problem taken care of.

When Merlin thought about their civil union, and what he would like it to be, he thought in terms of signing the document – in the presence of their witnesses, who would include his mother, Arthur's family, and a few close friends - and perhaps enjoying a festive champagne lunch or dinner later. Then everybody else would go away, and he and Arthur could spend a quiet(!) night in some nice hotel room far enough away from Belgrave Square to ensure that no other Pendragons were lurking in the area.

"Ha!" said Arthur, suddenly emerging from the study, rubbing his brow with both fists and then stretching and flexing his shoulder muscles.

"Ha what?" Merlin asked, startled out of his confused imaginings.

"I just got an email from The Dragon, of all people," replied his Assistant Director. "He said to tell you that you've actually saved the Institute money, through preventive care of the manuscripts, John the Baptist, and Lord Moldywart. The cost of having to practically rebuild them if they fell apart – that is, the materials we would need for such a thing, and the overtime you'd have to put in – would have been ruinous, according to him. So he's more than happy to have you on board, even though he had doubts when Father first hired you. Besides, I think he rather likes you."

"No," said Merlin, frowning.

"I didn't mean he likes you for your pretty face," Arthur said flatly. "I meant he likes you because you fit into the museum family very neatly. There's nothing worse, according to him, than dealing with colleagues who don't get along."

"I'm not going to get along with _anybody_," Merlin responded, "unless you finish proofing that bloody article so we can go out and get some dinner. I'm famished, and in case you never noticed, I have a very high metabolism."

"Fine," snapped Arthur, spinning round and heading back to the study. "Give me five minutes. The damn thing's almost done. Then we can go out, and you can fill yourself with calories, and then work them off later when we go to bed."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Old Flames**

"Nothing fancy," Merlin said firmly. "No confetti, no white tuxedos, no celebrity guests, no band playing mawkish dance music and _no dancing_."

"Not even a string quartet?" asked Morgana, tightening her lips dangerously. "That's very sedate and refined, don't you think? And two hundred guests is nothing in this day and age. If you'd only let me take charge…"

Honestly, the woman could be positively frightening.

"Are we still getting that mosaic loan from Sicily?" Merlin asked, _trying to change the subject_, but Morgana wasn't having any of that.

"Signor Schiavone is _panting_ to loan us his mosaic," she said patiently. "He wants his name in the Arts section of The Times, with other major collectors. But you're trying to change the subject."

They were sitting in the staff lounge, drinking coffee, and their colleagues had already drifted off to replenish their cups and mugs. The senior curator was perched on a chair, soignée in a simple but obviously expensive dress of burgundy-colored wool jersey, quite the picture of stylish elegance. She was nibbling daintily on a crumpet, eyes fixed on Merlin as he attempted to perform a balancing act with his mug and a blueberry muffin, crumbs from which were decorating his lap and one arm of the sofa.

"Morgana, _pleeease_," Merlin whispered, coming as close to whinging as he had ever gotten with the Institute's senior curator. "You and Arthur are used to publicity and press photographers and so on, I know, but I'm not. And this sort of thing is supposed to be _private_. Even Arthur wants it to be private."

"Oh, pffff," hissed Morgana, narrowing her eyes. Then she smiled suddenly, and patted Merlin's cheek as though he were a recalcitrant child. "I'll leave you in peace for a bit. But don't think I've given up. You may change your mind. Although I suppose you deserve some say in all of this. After all, you're the one who has to put up with Arthur. And he's so irritable these days! I can only imagine what he's like first thing in the morning!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What Arthur was like, first thing in the morning, depended upon a number of variables. If his work week schedule was very full, his inbox laden with messages from London, or the weather was bad – if it was very cold, or raining, or snowing – he might cast an annoyed glance at the alarm clock, glare blearily at Merlin as if it were all his fault, and turn his face into the warmth of Merlin's shoulder. He might lie like that for several minutes before sitting up, abruptly throwing off the bedclothes, and sliding out of bed, grumbling under his breath…because he was, after all, a responsible museum director and serious scholar.

If things weren't too busy, if there had been no emails from Uther, and the weather was good, he would look much less disgruntled, but also be much more inclined to start something they would have very little time to finish (at least, on a work day). He might begin by nibbling on the edge of Merlin's shoulder, which, in spite of his thinness, still retained the roundness of youth, or let the tip of one finger follow the clear-cut outline of his profile. Ten minutes or so later, when they were both in quite a feverish condition, he would realize what time it was and have to hurry.

On this particular morning, the weather had been exceptionally nice (no rain, snow, or sleet in sight), so Arthur had been in an exceptionally virile state. After a while, the alarm clock got knocked to the floor, completely by accident, but of course it rolled several feet away, ringing loudly and shrilly as first Merlin, and then Arthur, tried to reach it. Then Arthur leaned too far over the edge of the bed and tumbled off, bringing Merlin and half the bedclothes down with him, and the alarm was still jangling away. After failing to disentangle himself from the twisted sheets and his junior conservator, Arthur flung a shoe at the clock, miraculously managing to silence it.

There was no time to return to the business at hand, and anyway they were now laughing too hard, and Arthur was cursing the alarm clock and his bruised elbow at the same time.

"I can't believe it!" he finally muttered ruefully, rubbing his elbow and then managing to sit up. "Ow! Stupid bloody clock! Good job I didn't knock my head against the bedpost."

Merlin had been lying on his back amidst the ruin of the bedclothes, trying to catch his breath and wiping at his tears of mirth, but now his chuckling got louder and Arthur raised a curious eyebrow.

"It's something Nimueh said to me, once," Merlin managed to explain between snorts of laughter. "She said you had so many notches on your bedpost that people had lost count."

"_She_ should talk," Arthur began furiously, and then he subsided, smiling a little wryly. "That minx! Did she tell you that in Santa Barbara? Perhaps she just said that because she was jealous not to have been one of them. One of the metaphorical notches, I mean. Although, quite frankly, I don't think she was ever really interested in me in that way."

"Then maybe it was just a status thing, to her," Merlin replied. "If she didn't find you appealing. It must confer some sort of status in the museum world…having been shagged by Arthur Pendragon."

"Oh, fuck's sake!" roared Arthur, rather appropriately, and then he realized that Merlin was joking with him.

"There weren't all that many notches, Merlin, really," he said in a voice he tried to make humble.

"A likely story," Merlin said, but he was grinning broadly, and as he struggled to his feet, leaving the pile of bedclothes on the floor, he sent his Assistant Director an impish look that combined amusement with invitation.

Arthur watched his young conservator collect a folded towel and head for the bathroom, naked and pale, his dark hair disheveled and standing on end. It took him seconds to forget about his aching elbow, unwind himself from the fallen sheet, and follow him into the shower.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In spite of the winter chill, it was so brilliantly sunny that Arthur wore his Ray Bans to work.

"Those things are becoming an obsession with you," Merlin remarked casually as they mounted the steps to the Institute's entrance.

"Shut up, _Mer_lin," Arthur responded cheerfully, because he was feeling very much in charity with the world. A good night's sleep, a good breakfast, and good sex, not necessarily in that order, tended to put him in a highly positive frame of mind.

Leon met them in the entrance hall, a gloomy look on his face.

"Our alarm system's gone haywire again," he said, sighing. "I've rung up the alarm company and asked them to take us offline. It seems the system keeps dialing the local police precinct, with readings indicating that someone's been trying to break into your office."

"_My _office?" said Arthur, baffled. "Why would anybody want to break in there? I've nothing valuable in my desk. No money or expensive equipment in the room. All I have are piles of books, and notes and pictures for the new article I'm working on."

"Precisely," replied Leon, unhappily. "Therefore, the system must be malfunctioning. The company's sending one of their technical wizards this afternoon."

"Alarms of all sorts seem to have it in for me today," Arthur muttered as he headed in the direction of his office door.

Merlin reminded himself to buy a new alarm clock during his lunch hour.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You're working on _another _new article?" Merlin asked as he and Arthur entered their flat that evening, after work.

"Oh, Morgana and I are writing one together, on the Courtiers Tapestry, and its probable connection with that Sicilian mosaic, the one with the nearly identical composition," Arthur replied, pulling off his overcoat. "It really is remarkable, how much they look alike. And how much that mysterious figure, the dark-haired one next to the armored knight, looks like you. In both versions. If only I could find an image that served as the model for both!"

"Right," mumbled his junior conservator, frowning. "That's all I need: pictures of somebody who looks like me, in medieval dress, splashed all over the pages of textbooks and art historical journals."

"A little fame won't kill you," Arthur replied, shrugging. "Anyway, it won't be you who's famous, it'll be the figure from the tapestry. You don't fancy resembling a work of art, then?"

"Don't be daft," said Merlin, but Arthur could tell that he wasn't upset. "A work of art is the last thing I look like."

"Nimueh would be sooo disappointed she wasn't able to recruit you for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts," Arthur said with relish. "She loves collecting frequently-photographed people for their staff."

"Why is it that she's not particularly fond of you?" Merlin asked, examining the silver-plated business-card case Gaius had given him when he first came to work at the Institute. The surface had tarnished a little, so he rummaged in one of the kitchen cabinets for silver polish and a rag. "I thought you said she liked good-looking young men."

"You want to know why she doesn't like me? Professional envy, partly, even though we're not exactly in the same field. And…to tell you the truth, I…and other people…think she may have had something going with my father, at one time," Arthur murmured uncomfortably, wincing at the very thought. "Long ago, that is. She knew my mum, before she…of course, I don't know whether they were friends or not."

The mental image of Uther and Nimue (two of his less than favorite people) together was so distasteful that Merlin wrinkled his nose and said, "Ugh. I didn't realize. That is, Nimueh looks quite young. Older than we are, but still…"

"Oh, she was younger than my mother, but," Arthur said, and then coughed self-consciously.

"Ah," replied Merlin, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Normally," said Arthur, swallowing, "she's attracted to pretty boys. Like you."

"I'm not—" Merlin began, but Arthur brightened suddenly. "What a blessing we're not having this civil union thing in New York," he announced, and when Merlin looked at him questioningly, he grinned. "If we were doing it here, it would be difficult to get out of having a party and inviting our America-based Brit colleagues…Nimueh, Morgause, and other _wonderful _people like them."

"Oh, right," said Merlin sarcastically as he struggled with the lid on the jar of silver polish. "And since we're doing it in London, we'll only have to deal with lovely people like Cornelius Sigan."

"Can you imagine dealing with the lot we have here, though?" Arthur persisted. "I doubt Father would enjoy having to socialize with Nim. Even if they actually are old flames. And that could be a bit embarrassing for Elaine."

Arthur's pronouncement reminded Merlin of something he had told himself to mention to Arthur and then conveniently forgotten.

"Arthur," he said, rubbing away industriously at the card case with the rag and polish. "Since you mention, erm, old flames…if we do have a party after the, the you know, you won't mind if I invite Freya, will you?"

"Your university girlfriend," Arthur said flatly.

"Well, yeah, it was…we were, well, you know, at Cambridge, but since we broke up and she went to live with some bloke in the Lake District, we've stayed good friends, and we, that is, you know, correspond by email quite a bit, and so…erm..." Merlin realized that he was beginning to babble rather badly.

"You're a grammarian's nightmare," said Arthur, beginning to frown just a little. "Well no, I don't object on principle, but—"

"That's great," said Merlin, squinting at the card case. "I don't mind if you want to invite your horde of exes."

"Hmmm," murmured Arthur speculatively, although privately he was appalled at the thought.

"Quite a stampede that would be," Merlin went on cheerfully, swiping at the last of the tarnish. "Of course I really only know about one of them. That pretty girl on a horse, in that photo in your scrapbook."

"Oh, _Elena,_" Arthur said, wondering idly – or perhaps not so idly – whether he could make Merlin a little jealous. "She's the daughter of one of Father's mates, Godwyn Something-or-other, and the two of them were madly hoping that we'd hit it off."

Merlin simply smiled and went on with his polishing.

"We went out a few times, saw each other on and off, and she wasn't bad company," Arthur went on, sneaking a look at his junior conservator. "Athletic sort of girl; she could ride, and she almost beat me at table tennis."

"Really," said Merlin noncommittally, closing the jar of polish and tossing the rag into the sink.

"There was Cedric – not that I have a clue where he is, these days. Dierdre...she's at the National Museum of Australia, now. I'd invite Sophia," Arthur continued loudly. "But she's living here, in the States."

"What a pity," Merlin replied with what sounded like genuine regret. This was not working out as Arthur had hoped, and he quickly changed the subject.

Over dinner, however, Merlin returned to the subject of old flames, most particularly Freya, about whom Arthur had already heard a number of stories. He knew that she and Hunith had met, and that Hunith had liked her, that she and her current lover visited London frequently, and that Merlin's romance with her had been the longest of his pre-Arthur relationships.

"She'll be in London this spring, and she'd like to meet you," Merlin was saying between mouthfuls of sliced pineapple. "The three of us could have tea."

"That would be…nice," said Arthur drily.

"She and I broke things off not long after Cambridge, but we stayed friends, and every now and then we'd meet in London and go to a museum, or something."

"Hmmph," said Arthur.

"Sometimes we'd meet at the Peter Pan statue," Merlin went on, oblivious to his Assistant Director's growing displeasure. "In Kensington Gardens."

"How charming," Arthur drawled in a slightly chilly voice, rolling his eyes.

Later that night, he tugged Merlin into bed and made love to him fiercely.

"Wow, you…that…" Merlin stammered when Arthur finally loosened his grip and raised his head, his breathing beginning to slow. "I've never…you're…"

"Good," said Arthur. "I'm glad to hear it."

Merlin flushed. It had begun to occur to him what Arthur had been thinking.

"There's no one like you, Arthur," he said honestly, turning his head to meet his companion's keen blue stare.

"Good," Arthur repeated, sternly. "It's much too late for comparison shopping." He drew the duvet up round their shoulders and pulled Merlin snugly against him, reveling silently in the feel of that thin body relaxed alongside his, the tickle of his silky, spiky hair against his jaw. "Now go to sleep."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Making Arrangements**

Mordred Pendragon might be a singularly unusual child, but in two respects he was a Pendragon through and through. He possessed a haughty blue stare that was quite intimidating for a youngster of his age, and he was as stubborn as a mule.

Upon discovering the following email on his home computer one Saturday morning in February, Arthur was torn between laughter and grudging respect.

_Dear Arthur, Father says I'm not to come to London for your wedding, but I won't listen to him. He doesn't have the right to say that, I'm your brother. Why must he be such a tyrant with everybody? Before I came to live in New York, he even used to __**search my bedroom closet every month**__. Mum won't mind if I come, and Morgana's willing to take me with her. There isn't any way Father can stop me, and I hope he doesn't try, because then he will have a row worthy of the name on his hands. I've emailed Mum to ask her to speak with him tonight. I won't miss your wedding unless he has me thrown in a dungeon. Mordred _

Arthur was reminded of the time Uther had confiscated Mordred's secret stash of Cadbury Milk, and the outraged emails he had received from his young half brother following this traumatic event.

He had just sent off an email of his own to his father, after nearly a week of silence from him.

_Dear Father, I hope that all is well in London. If quite convenient, I would like to speak with you about our plans for March. Thank Elaine for the offer to put us up for the duration of our stay; we are still thinking over our arrangements, and I will let you know what we decide. As everybody seems to be insisting on some sort of party after we sign the document, I think we should try to keep whatever gathering we have as small and intimate as possible. I believe it may be best not to allow Morgana to arrange this. Arthur_

Well, if it sounded a bit curt, that was hardly inappropriate. After all, Uther had been extremely curt with him of late.

Having read through Mordred's email, he keyed a brief follow-up message to his father onto his screen, and sent it off without any feelings of compunction.

_Father, I forgot to mention that Morgana is perfectly willing to fly over with Mordred when the time comes. Naturally, I should like to have my brother with me for the occasion, and he has grown quite attached to Merlin. Arthur_

Arthur reluctantly gave his father credit for the fact that he hadn't moved to put a stop to his civil union with Merlin. (Not that he actually _could_; Arthur was hardly a minor.) He might object to it, as he had made quite clear in his telephone conversations and emails, but he would not interfere beyond voicing his opinion. He had never spoken openly against the Institute's young conservator, and Arthur realized that he _might_ even show up at the signing. Whether this would make things worse or better he could not say. Arthur was not given to frequent introspection, but he acknowledged to himself that he had spent virtually all of his life attempting to win Uther Pendragon's approval – his own air of confidence and self-reliance notwithstanding. (He was aware, as well, that Merlin _sensed_ this, although they had never spoken of it.)

Several feet away, at his own monitor, Merlin was reading an email from his mother in Ealdor.

_My dearest Merlin, I am making arrangements to come to London for your civil union, and wouldn't miss it for the world. I believe I can take at least a week away from home, as I told you when we last spoke. My next door neighbor will look after the cat, and Kanan can look in on the garden from time to time. I'll ring you soon, or you can ring me. I'm so excited to see you, and can hardly wait. Fond greetings to Arthur. All my love._

"Oh!" Merlin muttered with a rueful grin. "I can't believe she's still seeing that Kanan fellow. I'll need to give her a good talking to."

Arthur was checking telephone voicemail. "Morgana wants us to come to lunch," he said over his shoulder. "She's invited Gaius as well. Mordred's been a bit agitated – because of Father, I'm afraid – and she thinks it might calm him down. I've no doubt she wants to talk to us about our, um, civil ceremony as well, but if we keep things focused on Mordred it should be alright. At least he doesn't still think I might've had _the plague_. It was only a cold, and that was, what, a month ago. The boy has to learn how to take a joke."

"Fine," replied Merlin, chewing on a pencil eraser as he pondered how best to respond to his mother. He found it mildly amusing that she had managed to tame Kanan, the former troublemaker of Ealdor and its environs, but was relieved that she wasn't planning on bringing _him_ to the civil ceremony.*

"If we're going, we had better get a move on," Arthur said, switching off his computer and stretching his arms, working his shoulder muscles. "Oh, and Morgana says Mordred's got some crazy notion that if he concentrates hard enough, he can communicate with other people telepathically. He says that when we're in London he's going to try to convince Father to let him go to university at MIT or Cal Tech, by influencing his subconscious mind."

"Are all of you Pendragons so bull headed?" Merlin asked as he looked about for his coat, finally locating it behind the sofa, where Arthur had flung it the night before in a fit of passion.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Where's your mum planning to stay, Merlin?" Morgana asked as she, Arthur, Merlin, Mordred, and Gaius finished their meal of delicious homemade (by Morgana's neighbor) vegetable soup, toasted cheese sandwiches, a green salad, and sliced melon and strawberries. "Has she any relatives in London?"

"Oh, she said she'll be staying with friends," Merlin answered. "In Chelsea."

"She'll come to the house and have dinner with us, won't she?" Morgana said firmly. "I'm sure she and Mum will get along beautifully."

Merlin noticed that she had not included Uther in that statement, but doubted that his practical and forthright mother would let herself be intimidated by the senior Pendragon.

"Now Arthur," Morgana went on, putting a hand on her stepbrother's arm. "What are you planning to _wear?_"

"Wear?" said Arthur, rolling his eyes. He had been sitting companionably with his little half brother, listening to him theorize about telepathy, the iniquity of fathers, and the silliness of fashion-obsessed older sisters. Mordred – after eyeing Arthur carefully to make certain he really didn't have the plague – had seemed happy to see him, and had confided that he thought Morgana's ideas for the civil union and after-party were over the top.

"Completely over the top," Mordred reiterated in his cool, precise little voice. "_I _think."

"That makes two of us," Arthur replied in a heartfelt whisper.

"You'll be staying with your Father and Elaine, of course," Gaius murmured to the Assistant Director very quietly as Morgana went to the kitchen for coffee.

"I suppose I should," said Arthur, looking at Merlin from the corner of his eye. "They've completed the renovations to the house…Mordred, you'll have your old room back."

"I'm going to be there," Mordred responded firmly, his jaw set.

"And Merlin…?" Gaius whispered as Arthur turned towards him. "What about…will he be…?"

Arthur bit his lower lip. "I don't know," he responded, quietly enough to be inaudible to his junior conservator. "I don't think he really wants to stay in, uh, Father's home for all the time that's necessary. It could be, well, uncomfortable for him."

Gaius made no response, although he was inclined to agree.

"Now to add to all of this," Arthur said with a wry smile, "it looks as though Morgana's going to start nagging us about _clothes_."

"Arthur," his stepsister sang out as she swept into the room with the coffee tray, but he interrupted her with a raised hand.

"Where's Leon?" he asked smoothly, and then watched as Morgana's face flooded with pink. "I felt certain he'd be here; isn't he, most weekends?"

"Oh, he's at home getting some well-deserved sleep," she replied, and then turned redder as Arthur groaned and raised his eyes to the ceiling. "No…not because…oh, damn you, Arthur! He's tired because of all the aggravation this week, dealing with the stupid, bloody alarm system. He and the technicians have no idea why it's been malfunctioning. Only yesterday its readings indicated that _my_ office had been broken into. Which could hardly be the case. What would anybody want from my office?"

"Perhaps one of the hard-working young interns wanted to borrow some of your expensive designer cosmetics," Arthur said snidely. "You don't keep any valuables in your desk, do you Morgs?"

"Certainly not," she sniffed, pouring coffee into Gaius' cup. "I'm sure it was another system error. Oh, I meant to tell you…I've informed His Majesty that I'm definitely bringing Mordred with me when I fly to London for your event. I don't know that he's terribly pleased with me, but Mordred's well ahead of his fellow students when it comes to his studies; his schoolwork won't suffer. And Mum'll be delighted to see him."

"The house will be filled to bursting," Arthur commented, giving her a look of reluctant gratitude. "But, um, I'm glad you've been standing up to Father on Mordred's behalf. I have, of course, but it's nice to have company."

"Ah," Morgana murmured. "It'll all be fine, Arthur, you silly boy. I'm certain of it. Mordred! Would you please be a dear and fetch the milk from the kitchen? It's obvious telepathy doesn't work, I've been _hoping_ very _strongly_ you'd do that, for the past five minutes."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On Monday morning, Merlin stood with Gwen in the Textile Conservation studio on the top floor of the Institute, staring at a yellow silk brocade that had been unrolled on one of the work tables. It was a beautiful thing, sixteenth century and in excellent condition, and Gwen was explaining how fabrics like it could be used for a French hood, edged with pearls, or a kirtle meant to be visible under an open-front gown. Merlin was only giving this half his attention, as the sheen of the silk reminded him of the light reflecting off Arthur's hair, beneath the bedroom lamp. Unlike many men whose beards were darker, or even lighter, than the rest of their hair, Arthur's fledgling beard was the same golden blond as the hair on his head. (The dusting of hair on his chest was darker, but no matter.)

"Merlin," said Gwen in an exasperated voice, jolting him back into the present. "You haven't been listening, have you? I _said_, I think this may have been part of a garment worn by Tudor royalty."

"Fascinating," replied Merlin, channeling Mr Spock.

Gwen put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

Merlin rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, Gwen, brain isn't functioning today…not enough sleep, I'm afraid."

Gwen raised her eyebrows.

"I've been going over Gaius' inventory reports," Merlin protested. "And trying to figure out what to pack for…for London."

"Oh God!" exclaimed Gwen, slapping herself on the side of the head. "London! I forgot to tell you…Lance would kill me…I suppose I didn't get enough sleep either."

"You've a good excuse," Merlin murmured, smiling. "You're a newlywed."

Gwen slapped him lightly on the shoulder, blushing slightly. "Oh, you! It's just that I'd almost forgotten…Lance was out with his mates Saturday night, I think at that dreadful Gedref's Labyrinth, and Gwaine asked him to mention that he might have a solution for you. His brother's family's got a house in London, and they'll be away in Italy for the spring. He said you could stay there in case you don't want to stay at Uther's – and you'd be doing his brother a favor by keeping an eye on the place for a bit. Don't you think it might work nicely? I can only say, if _I_ were marrying Arthur the last place I'd want to be is under Uther's very nose."

"Oh," replied Merlin, after a moment. "Thanks. Have you told Arthur?"

"Lance is telling him about it at lunch. Then the two of you can talk it over at home."

"That's kind of Lance," Merlin said. "And generous of, erm, Gwaine's brother. He…Gwaine isn't planning to be in London during this whole thing, is he?"

"Not that I know of," Gwen replied, shrugging. "He doesn't seem to have any holiday plans. Of course, you never can tell with Gwaine. He does turn up at the oddest times. Here one moment, gone the next. Now, could you help me roll up this brocade again, Merlin? I really don't think I can get round to treating it until next week. Both Arthur and Lance are insisting I work on that horrible knight's surcoat. _Men_!"

* * *

**Hunith mentioned her friendship with a reformed Kanan in Chapter 13 of _Outside the Pendragon Institute_.**


	14. Chapter 14

**I'm in mourning for a lost fanfic. It used to be available on this site, but seems to have vanished: the excellent AU Merthur story, "A Kiss is Not a Contract…But It's Very Nice," by Toots McGonagall. In all honesty, it was that fic, read well over a year ago, that inspired me to write the Pendragon Institute stories. If anybody knows anyplace else the elusive Ms McGonagall may have posted it, please let me know. **

* * *

**Chapter 14: The Witch's Quickening**

"Rings," said Morgana in a forthright tone of voice.

"No rings," replied Arthur, a little absently, as he flipped through a stack of color images his printer had just spat out at him.

"No rings!" Morgana shrieked, so loudly that her stepbrother winced.

"Why have rings?" Arthur asked, beginning to feel frustrated. "You know conservators aren't supposed to wear rings when they're working. Gwen takes her engagement and wedding rings off when she's in the studio. They get in the way, and they could fall off onto something, or damage the art. They're strictly against the rules."

His stepsister gave him a sideways look.

"What?" Arthur snapped. "I wasn't necessarily planning to wear one. And there's no reason Merlin should."

"Why, Arthur," Morgana said with a slyness worthy of the most evil villainess in a made-for-television melodrama. "Don't you want other people to know that he's _taken_? That they should keep their paws off, and so on?"

Arthur thought about his junior conservator, his lanky, coltish beauty, his tendency to try to see the best in everyone he met…even if that person wasn't worth a rat's backside.

"I'll, er, think about it," he said, steeling himself to meet Morgana's stare. He was standing behind his monumental office desk, where he had been working hard all morning to make the various piles of paperwork go away. Morgana was facing him from the other side, in a beautifully tailored dark grey jacket over a dress of violet silk, looking every inch the twenty-first century fashion plate – except for the glint of battle in her eyes.

The Assistant Director shrugged his shoulders. He knew she meant well – really – but there was just so much interference that even a stepbrother could take. And there was no way he was going to let her take charge of his formal union with Merlin Emrys. Even if the _ring_ mightn't be a bad idea. "Now…have there been any more reports of alarm malfunctions? Because if so, I think we should look into getting our system replaced, or at least overhauled."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin had spent most of the day with Will and Gaius in Objects Conservation, working on an early sixteenth-century reliquary of some obscure female saint, from Belgium. The reliquary itself was of wood, shaped like a woman's head, neck, and shoulders, ending in the middle of the chest. It was elaborately painted and gilded – the saint had a pink and white complexion and golden braids – but the seam down the side of the head had split, and if one looked carefully enough, part of the saint's skull (or what people had _thought_ was the saint's skull, during the High Middle Ages) was visible.

Objects Conservation was Will's area, and Gaius, being the Head of Conservation, was also capable of handling three dimensional objects, although his own specialty was paper. Apart from Gaius, Merlin was the only Institute conservator qualified to work on both paper and objects, and he had been perfectly happy to give his two colleagues a helping hand as they turned the piece from side to side (and even upside down), checking for other cracks and split areas in the wood. Gaius was not in a cheerful frame of mind, having sat on his eyeglasses earlier and bent the earpieces quite out of shape, but he had felt much better once the object had been stabilized, and no additional problems had been found.

That evening, Merlin stood in the kitchen unloading a sack of groceries, as images of skulls, gilding, Gaius' crooked spectacles, and the contents of the refrigerator floated through his brain. Arthur was going out to dinner; two childhood friends (who lived near his relatives in Devon) and their wives had flown into town, and he was planning to meet them at eight, at a nearby restaurant. He would have been pleased to bring his junior conservator along but Merlin had bowed out, preferring to get some research done and go to bed early. He was pleasantly drowsy and thinking about food, when Arthur's voice jostled him out of thoughts of corn fritters sautéed in oil with a hint of garlic.

"This business of Gwaine's brother's home in London," Arthur began, out of the blue, and Merlin gave such a start of surprise that he dropped the bottles of spring water he was putting into the fridge.

"Arthur," he said firmly, once he had righted the miraculously unbroken bottles. "You should stay in your family home – with your _family_. Your stepmother's counting on it; she's devoted to you and would feel sorry if…and your, your father expects it."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and gave his conservator a weary look.

"He does, Arthur," Merlin went on, doggedly. "He may be, erm, difficult about all of this, but he's your father, and he…he cares about you, you know that."

His Assistant Director looked him directly in the eye. "And you, Merlin?"

"Erm, I thought of staying at a hotel," Merlin mumbled evasively. He knew his mother's friends, in Chelsea, had barely enough room for Hunith, and would not be likely to welcome a twenty-two-day guest.

"I'd be happy to pay for one," Arthur said, sitting down at the kitchen table and setting his briefcase on the floor.

"No," said Merlin, stubbornly. "I'll pay for it myself."

"For pity's sake!" Arthur remonstrated. "On a conservator's salary? Don't be an idiot. Do you know what hotel rates are like in London these days? I'll pay for it."

The expression on Merlin's face was becoming mutinous, so Arthur put a hand on his shoulder.

"_Mer_lin," he said quietly, watching the pale face with its sharp, beautiful angles flush slightly. "Stop being so bloody proud. I didn't mean to sound patronizing. But if I'm in Belgrave Square, in the bosom of my fearsome family, it might be a good solution for _you_ to stay at Gwaine's brother's…what's his name?"

"Agravaine, I think, something like that."

"How unusual," said Arthur. "Anyway, at Agravaine's. It'll be like having your own place, and you'll have it all to yourself, very private. So you wouldn't be trapped in a house full of Pendragons, but you could visit when you're feeling strong enough, and I could, er, come and visit _you_—if we want to...you know."

"_If?_" said Merlin with something like a smile quivering on his lips.

"_Mer_lin," Arthur muttered, tightening his grip. "_When_, then. Think it over, we can decide tomorrow."

"This is getting to be quite an operation," Merlin said, still with that little half-smile. "And we have Morgana to contend with, as well."

Arthur grimaced. "She has wedding fever," he replied gloomily. "Can't seem to get a grip. When it comes to being the quintessential annoying step-relative, she seems to be aiming for a world record. If she barges into my office one more time, I'm going to leap out of the window."

Merlin chuckled, to Arthur's great relief. "Idiot."

"Takes one to know one," Arthur retorted. "Look who's talking."

"If you're going to talk about records…_we_ ought to be in the Guinness Book of World Records, anyway," Merlin stated in what almost amounted to a whisper.

"For idiocy, you mean?"

"No, for…" Merlin gestured wordlessly in the direction of the bedroom.

It appeared to be common knowledge within the international museum community that the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute was, in addition to being gorgeous, very highly sexed. Merlin sometimes felt that it was a serious responsibility – being the sole provider of carnal pleasure to a fit and energetic individual who seemed to require incredible amounts of…of everything.

Not that Merlin was complaining.

Some of the most blissful, emotionally satisfying moments of his life had come from the hours he and Arthur spent entwined in bed, oblivious to anything but each other and what they were doing. There were times when Arthur, gripped in the intensity of sensation and desire, cupped Merlin's face in his hands and whispered his name hoarsely, over and over, then clutched him with an urgency and possessiveness that sent them both beyond the edge of passion. But sometimes he would be so gentle, uncharacteristically tender, letting his guard down enough to look into Merlin's eyes with an expression of protective sweetness.

On other, more lighthearted occasions, however, it was apparent that sex could be like a game to Arthur (a grown up game for grown up boys), or like some sort of hunt (minus projectile weapons), all within the confines of the home, of course. These occasions usually ended up with the two of them on the floor, or in the shower, or against the refrigerator door – almost anywhere but on the bed, or even the sofa.

On nights when they were too exhausted for any form of lovemaking, Arthur liked to go to sleep with Merlin pressed against him, usually with his head on Arthur's shoulder and one arm resting on his chest. However, Arthur was rarely too tired for sex. It was almost as though he was addicted to a drug; what he needed, in regular doses, was Merlin's body in his arms, milky-pale, thin and angular but surprisingly strong, either pliant and trembling as it received his, or virile and vigorous when the situation was reversed and vigor was called for.

These unquestionably hot thoughts were interrupted by a gentle thump as Arthur, who was meant to be getting ready for his dinner with friends, kicked his briefcase out of the way and took a step in Merlin's direction.

"Now that we've got those things settled," he said, "we can move on to less problematic matters."

"Very funny," Merlin responded. "Hadn't you better start getting—?"

"Tell me, _Mer_lin," Arthur went on conversationally, "do you know how to walk on your knees?"

"No," replied his junior conservator, giving him a doubtful look.

Arthur's eyes were fixed on that deliciously flushed and full-lipped mouth. "Would you like me to help you?"

"I wouldn't if I were you," Merlin said defiantly, his hands on his hips. "I'm not going to perform fe…I'm not going to do anything of the sort at this time of day, when you're meant to be meeting your mates at that restaurant an hour from now."

Arthur calmly pulled out his mobile phone and punched in a speed dial number.

"I'll be late," he said, holding the device to his ear. "Don't wait…start without me."

There was a faint, tinny chatter from whoever was on the other end, barely audible to Merlin.

"Sorry," Arthur murmured apologetically into the phone. "Something's come up."

Merlin snorted incredulously.

"Right," Arthur concluded, raising his eyes to Merlin's. "I'll be there presently."

"Arthur!" Merlin protested half-heartedly as his Assistant Director snapped his mobile shut and advanced on him.

"You needn't expect this to be a one-sided thing," Arthur said in a reassuring voice. "I'm a firm believer in favor for favor. If not now, later."

"You're unbelievable," Merlin replied, eyes rolling, but his expression softened as Arthur came up to him and stood less than six inches away, reaching out to run the back of his hand, fingers curled, gently down the side of his face.

"_Mer_lin," Arthur whispered, and his fingers brushed over Merlin's mouth. Merlin caught them between his teeth, and Arthur laughed a little shakily, so Merlin leaned forward and kissed him to make him stop. After several minutes of this, they completely lost track of time and found that they had somehow traversed the short distance to the sitting room, where they were lying on the carpet more or less fully dressed, kissing very slowly and deeply, eyes closed. Arthur wound one arm round Merlin's waist and held onto him, even more strongly and possessively than usual, whilst his other hand clutched at Merlin's hair and then curved round his jaw, as Merlin's fingertips stroked his chest beneath his shirt. They rolled over several times, fumbling with uncooperative buttons and trouser zips, until Arthur eventually established himself on top; he shoved Merlin flat and groaned "_Mine, mine_," as Merlin gave him a look that managed to combine languor and reproach before suddenly yielding himself.

"What you said earlier," Merlin said faintly, after. "About reciprocity."

"Mmmr," mumbled Arthur indistinctly into the curve of his neck.

"I hope you meant it," Merlin continued sleepily. "It'll be my turn later."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur returned from his dinner at about half past midnight, to find Merlin curled up and fast asleep in bed, the picture of weary innocence. He moved the bedside lamp a little, so that the light was not shining on Merlin's face, and walked very quietly out of the bedroom.

In the study, he switched on his computer and shot off a quick email to his stepsister.

_Dear Morgana, I'm happy to know that both you AND Mordred will be definitely attending my you-know-what in London. Between the two of us we should be able to contend with Father if he makes a fuss about Mordred. I'll be staying at the Belgravia house, as I risk being torn limb from limb by the Pendragon clan if I do otherwise. I'm not going to subject Merlin to that, however, so he'll be staying elsewhere (location to be decided). Just one request, dear girl…I'm pleased with your support, but do you think you can restrain yourself from bombarding me with party suggestions every single day? I promise to behave myself and not do that to you, should you ever decide to rope some poor, unfortunate, unwitting male into matrimony. Even though you claim you used to beat me when we were children (and I have no recollection of this), I think you'll agree that I could now thrash you without too much difficulty. All my love, Arthur _

* * *

**Couldn't resist that dialogue from Episode 1, Series 1!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Like Magic**

At three o'clock in the morning, the telephone rang.

Merlin awoke to the shrill beeping of the phone, mingled with curses and expostulations from Arthur as he freed his arms from enveloping bedclothes and made a grab for the receiver. When his Assistant Director barked tersely into the handset, before realizing he was holding it upside down, Merlin sat up, rubbing his eyes and wondering who in bloody hell would have the nerve to call them at this hour.

A moment later, Arthur set the phone down gently and then cursed with astounding verve until he ran out of vocabulary.

"What?" mumbled Merlin, still half asleep but very impressed. He hadn't thought Arthur knew even half of those words.

Arthur had already slid out of bed and was heading for the closet, rubbing his eyes every bit as vigorously as Merlin.

"All right, don't tell me," Merlin said, yawning, and Arthur turned, biting his lip with annoyance.

"It's the bloody alarm," he said abruptly, switching on a lamp and reaching for a grey sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. "It's been set off _again_. We're going to have to have the entire system replaced."

"It's gone off _at this hour_?" Merlin mumbled, still bleary eyed and fuzzy with sleep. He knew it was standard protocol for the system to automatically dial the local police precinct, the Assistant Director, and the senior curator, in that order, if the alarm was tripped between eight p.m. and eight a.m.…but this was ridiculous.

"The police will be there momentarily; I don't want to arrive much later," Arthur was muttering as he ran a comb haphazardly through his hair. "I'll be back in an hour or two, Merlin. That is, as long as there wasn't a break-in. Which I'm certain there wasn't."

"Shall I come with you?" Merlin asked, sitting up and shaking his head to clear it.

"No, there's really no point," Arthur said, his voice softening a little as he looked at his junior conservator, sitting up in bed with the sheet bunched round his waist, his slender torso almost silvery in the dim light of the single lamp.

"'Kay," said Merlin, flopping back down again. "If you're sure."

"You'd just get in the way," Arthur snapped, and Merlin remained silent, realizing that having been awakened at three a.m. entitled anybody to a bout of prattishness. "I can't wait to see Morgana when she shows up at the Institute with no makeup and her hair every which way. I'd better get a move on, or she'll get there before me."

"Good luck," said Merlin as Arthur strode down the hall, muttering yet another string of curses under his breath.

A little over an hour later, he woke with a start to find Arthur sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his sweatshirt over his head.

"What happened?" he mumbled, turning onto his side. Arthur had not switched on the light, but the feeble gleam from streetlamps outside caught in the now rumpled gold of his hair.

"Another false alarm," Arthur said shortly, and Merlin could hear the frustration in his voice. "Unless, of course, it was sorcerers who can walk through walls. The night watchman swore he saw and heard nothing unusual. That means the expense of re-doing the entire system."

"Oh," said Merlin in a sleepy but sympathetic voice. "Bad luck. Was Morgana there?"

"She arrived two minutes after I did," Arthur replied, sounding tired but gleeful. "And she was hideously embarrassed at being seen in a nightshirt over jeans, without her makeup and with her hair in a tangle. 'Course the policemen ogled her anyway, so that improved her mood after a bit."

"Oh, right, the police," Merlin said, remembering. "Were they angry about this being the – what? – fourth false alarm? Fifth? In the past month?"

"They weren't happy," Arthur said grimly. "Said it was getting to be like the boy who cried wolf, even though the previous false alarms at least occurred during a reasonable hour! They had to search the entire place, more or less, and of course they found nothing. We assured them we'd be getting a new system installed, and told them how much we appreciated their coming – and Morgana batted her eyelashes a few times and let her nightshirt slide off her shoulder. That worked like magic; they calmed down and were smiling like fools by the time they left."

"Which room did the system say was being infiltrated?" Merlin asked with a tremendous yawn.

"Gwen's Textile Conservation studio," said Arthur, running one hand absent-mindedly from Merlin's shoulder to the sharp angle of his hipbone. "Can you believe it? Like anybody would want to steal anything from there."

"A tapestry?" Merlin said, watching as Arthur dropped his jeans and underwear.

"Oh, right," Arthur snorted, and although it was too dark to see clearly, Merlin knew he was rolling his eyes. "A burglar prancing down Fifth Avenue with a rolled up tapestry over his shoulder. 'Oh, no, officer, it's just a little carpet for the wife's birthday.' Those things are big and bloody heavy." Arthur slid into bed and scrunched up the pillows behind his head with a sigh. Then he rolled over, landing partly on top of his junior conservator, and was asleep in less than a minute, one leg wedged between Merlin's and one arm flung across his ribs.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That afternoon, Arthur and Merlin had a fight in Arthur's office.

In a way, it was almost fun as it reminded them of the roaring arguments they used to have in Merlin's early days at the Institute, and allowed them to exorcise the grouchiness that had plagued them all day due to their lack of sleep. The excuse for the argument was admittedly feeble – Merlin had forgotten to reformat the updated spreadsheets reflecting data from the latest manuscript condition reports, and although it would be easy enough to do, and Arthur wouldn't need them until the following week, he _had_ requested them early.

"You know I need them for next week's staff meeting!" Arthur shouted, eyes blazing as he fiddled with the crimson paper airplane Mordred had made for him as a desk ornament. "And for the notes they're expecting in London."

"You'll have them by tomorrow," Merlin said in a long-suffering voice, eyes raised to the white plaster molded designs in the ceiling. "It's not as if there were any drastic changes in the condition of the damn manuscripts, or problems requiring extensive conservation work on more than a handful of them," he continued, his voice getting louder.

"More than a handful…" mimicked Arthur, scowling. "Well, that's what I get for spoiling you so thoroughly."

Merlin went pale with irritation and embarrassment. "Going to sack me, are you?"

"I can't," said Arthur, beginning to grin. His burst of temper was fading, and his mind was moving on to the afternoon tea break, and the bag of jelly donuts on his desk. "A half-decent conservator is hard to come by. Almost as hard to find as a stellar museum director – something _I've_ been trained to be since birth."

"Wow," Merlin said calmly. "And how long did it take you to become a prat?"

"You can't address me like that," Arthur stated smugly. "Not here, at the Institute. I'm your boss."

"Sorry," Merlin replied demurely, lowering his eyes and then raising them again. "How long did it take you to become a prat…my lord."

He ducked and the brown paper bag of jelly donuts missed him by inches, to be followed by Mordred's paper airplane.

"What are you trying to do?" Merlin asked. "Paper cut me to death?"

Arthur gave up even trying to look angry, and laughed long and loudly, his head going back in the usual gesture.

"No," he finally managed to say, wiping his eyes and coughing. "I can't sack you, or murder you, for that matter. What would we do in this place for comic relief?"

"Thanks!" Merlin said sarcastically.

"You're welcome," said the Assistant Director, grinning almost as broadly as the Cheshire Cat. Then his voice rose in volume again. "Bloody—! Now the jelly donuts are squashed!"

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Leon put his head round it.

"Um, forgive me, but did you know that visitors can hear you in the hall?" he said, avoiding their eyes and looking slightly mortified. "There's a class of primary school kids out there, and they're, uh, curious." He took a step into the room and stumbled.

"Steady on," said Arthur, reaching out a hand. Then he realized that Leon had nearly slipped on the bag of jelly donuts.

"It was just another of our arguments over paperwork," Merlin said in explanation. "But we'll tone it down, don't want to frighten the visitors."

"Anyway, it's entirely Merlin's fault," Arthur added, waving a dismissing hand. "Thank you, Leon; I'm coming down to your office in half an hour to talk about alarm systems."

Leon gratefully withdrew, closing the door behind him, and Arthur retrieved the fallen bag of donuts.

"I don't suppose you can _mend_ these?" he asked mournfully, looking inside. He prodded one of the jelly donuts with his letter opener.

"What?" said Merlin, shoulders raised. " You're the one who hurled them at _me_. And no, I can't mend them. I'm just your average, ordinary arts conservator."

"Hardly that," Arthur replied, grinning. "Hardly ordinary. You know what the museum world says about you. Magic in your fingertips, and so on. Not a wizard in disguise, then?" His bad mood had been completely obliterated, and he brandished the sword-shaped letter opener like the real thing. "Disarm me, come on."

"No way," said Merlin. "Look, no magic." He waved his hand in Arthur's direction. "Expelliarmus!"

"Didn't pass your OWLs, did you, Mr Potter," murmured Arthur. "What a disgrace!"

"Aguamenti," intoned Merlin, trying not to snigger. "That's supposed to douse you with water. Which is what you deserve. See? It doesn't work."

"Hmmph," said Arthur. "What use are you? Try another language. Nobody speaks Latin anymore."

"Forbearnan," said Merlin with false meekness, pointing at the pile of papers on Arthur's desk.

Quite naturally, nothing happened, and Arthur looked at Merlin and then the papers with narrowed eyes.

"And what was it you were trying to do?" he asked, drawing his brows together.

"Set fire to those papers," Merlin replied cheerfully. "Burn up your notes. I had a year of Old English at university, for what it was worth. That's one of the few things I remember."

"Oh, thanks!" said Arthur, frowning. "Burnt notes is all I need. Well, it's obvious you're no Gandalf."

"Until I stumble across the One Ring," Merlin replied, "I don't stand a chance of competing with him."

"Rings!" Arthur exclaimed to himself, under his breath, smacking his own head with chagrin. "I knew I'd forgotten…! Back to your basement, Merlin," he went on in a normal tone of voice. "I was trying to write up an outline, before you destroyed my concentration. As we're at work, I can't exactly tell you to whip out your, er, magic wand…"

Merlin made an indignant noise and stalked out of the office.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur gave Leon the task of checking up on various alarm systems and their companies' support services, spent an hour (nearly half of which was spent in verbal sniping) going over research on the Courtiers' Tapestry with Morgana, and stopped into Lance's office shortly before five o'clock.

The arms and armor curator was sitting at his desk, scrutinizing a book of heraldic designs used on the tunics of medieval knights. He was leaning forward, his sweep of dark hair falling over his eyebrows. It was not difficult to see why some of the high school girls who did volunteer work in the library were hard put to decide between the Assistant Director and this London-raised son of a Chilean diplomat, as objects of their adoration.

"Yes, Arthur?" Lance asked, raising his eyes from images of lions rampant, chevrons, and bend sinisters.

"I have a question," Arthur murmured, sitting down. "It's, well, about something private…er, personal."

"Yes?" said Lance encouragingly, wondering why on earth Arthur Pendragon – although a good friend of several years' standing – would want to confide personal secrets to the husband of his ex-girlfriend.

Arthur shifted in his chair, but went straight to the point in his usual manner. "Lance, I need to ask you about, um, _rings_."

"Really?" said Lance, in total surprise. "Rings? You mean for…? I'm surprised you didn't go to Morgana with that question."

"Lance, please," Arthur murmured, sounding pained. "I'm warning you. If you so much as breathe a word about this to Morgana…it'll be pistols at dawn, at twenty paces. Or a duel with a pair of those broadswords you've been urging me to put on display in Gallery Two."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I'm starving," Merlin announced later that evening, as he and Arthur rummaged in their kitchen cabinets and searched the shelves for the makings of a meal. "Gwen asked me to help her in Textile Conservation. So I went upstairs and together we wrestled a tapestry to the ground, and pummeled it into submission."

"How violent," Arthur commented mildly. "Did it beg for mercy, or put up a fight?"

"Gwen knew how to handle it," Merlin replied, peering into the fridge. "You're right; those things are unbelievably heavy. Hey! We've no lettuce and carrots!"

"Rabbit food," said Arthur dismissively. "Hamster nosh. I'll ring up the market and have them deliver something. You know, real man food."

Merlin opened a cabinet door and found himself face to face with bags of crisps, and a selection of choc bars that would have done Mordred proud.

"This isn't food," he said, almost accusingly. "I didn't buy this. It's the sort of grub you take on car trips, or to the cinema."

"Someday we'll actually do that drive through Wales we've been talking about," Arthur murmured, setting the kettle on top of the stove and then unconsciously fingering his beard.

Less than six weeks had passed since Arthur had suggested that the two of them see what they looked like with facial hair. He now had a very handsome, neatly shaped short beard, very minimalist, that just followed the line of his jaw and lined his upper lip with gold, whereas Merlin had…scruff.

Arthur found the scruff adorable (although he would never say so), and had begun to tease Merlin about it.

"You look like an unemployed youth down on his luck, who's been living in his car for weeks."

"I haven't got a car," Merlin replied with an exasperated look. "If I had one, I don't think I'd live in it. And this beard business was all your idea."

Arthur kept his beard neatly trimmed and fussed over it every morning; it was the same blond as the hair on his head and in no way detracted from his remarkable good looks.

"I'll shave it off before the You-Know-What," he said, peering at his distorted reflection in the side of the stainless-steel kettle. "After we get to London. In the meantime, it's rather interesting, having one. It doesn't scratch you when I…does it?"

"Not really," said Merlin, rolling his eyes.

"You sure?" asked Arthur, stepping into Merlin's personal space.

"Don't even think about doing anything," Merlin warned. "Until after dinner." But when Arthur kissed him he kissed back, running a hand lightly along the side of Arthur's face.

"It's not so bad," he murmured, smiling a little before backing away. "Not the way it was the first week, when it was like having sandpaper sex."

"Ah," said Arthur, suddenly, reaching into his jacket pocket. "Before I forget, _again_." He held up a measuring tape, marked on one side with centimeters, on the other with inches, that he'd borrowed from Gaius' office.

"Is that for measuring your _beard_?" Merlin asked, surprised.

"No," Arthur replied calmly, unrolling the tape. "Come here."

"Please," said Merlin, looking horrified. "Don't tell me you're going to measure, erm…"

"Idiot," said Arthur, shaking out the tape and reaching for Merlin's hand. It was the right hand, with the Pendragon signet ring, and Arthur scrutinized this for a moment.

"It fits well, doesn't it?" he murmured. "Just checking something." He lifted Merlin's other hand, the left one, and wrapped the tape neatly round his third finger.

"_Arthur_!" Merlin almost shouted, pulling at his hand, to no avail. "What are you doing?"

"Measuring for a ring, of course," Arthur replied, releasing the captive hand and jotting notes on a piece of paper. "What did you think I was doing?"

"But…but…" Merlin sputtered, eyes wide with surprise. "You never said anything about rings. We never even discussed them, and—"

The Assistant Director had no intention of telling him that it had been Morgana's suggestion to opt for rings, or that she had told him a ring would be useful in marking Merlin as unavailable and _his_.

"I think a simple gold band would look rather nice," he murmured, inspecting his young conservator's elegantly shaped hand with its long, sensitive fingers. "Don't you? Matching rings…Welsh gold, perhaps…" *

"Is there actually any left?" Merlin said in tones of disbelief. "Welsh gold, I mean. Between the rich and famous and the royal family, I thought it might have been all used up."

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin," Arthur said severely. "Of course there's some left. Something very plain, I thought…nothing showy…Do you prefer a wide band or a narrow one?"

Merlin swallowed. "This is rather an investment for you, isn't it? Well, look at it this way – if things don't work out you'd have the gold, and gold always appreciates in value, so—"

Arthur seized him by the front of his shirt and pushed him up against one of the kitchen cabinets, which rattled in protest.

"_Merlin_, you _idiot_," he said through his teeth, "I am not investing in gold. I'm bloody well investing in a conservator, so that…so that I'll always have a convenient somebody to argue with, and if I throw anything at you and it breaks, you can fix it, and if I'm in a rotten mood I can take it out on you…very slowly and…that is, very slowly."

This was the closest Arthur had come to garbling his words in a long time, and he was rather appalled at himself.

For a moment Merlin looked as if he was going to laugh, but apparently he thought better of it, because he lowered dark lashes over dancing eyes and put his arms round Arthur's neck.

"Okay," he said quietly, and Arthur could hear the smile in his voice. "It's been a horrific day. If you're still in a rotten mood, you can take it out on me now…very slowly."

"I thought you were starving," his Assistant Director growled as the tip of his nose brushed against Merlin's scruffy jaw.

"Dinner can wait," said Merlin simply, putting one hand in Arthur's hair and pulling him carefully in.

* * *

*** With thanks to Einonhen of Caerluen for hr suggestion about the Welsh gold.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Be Careful What You Wish For**

For the next several days the Pendragon Institute's alarm system was as good as gold. Leon insisted that technicians from the company look everything over with a fine-toothed comb, and had their assurances that whatever was wrong, it wasn't the system.

"Well, what is it, then?" Leon asked, trying not to sound impatient. He had the technicians fine tune the motion sensors and go over every inch of wiring, following them about the museum with an eagle eye.

The Assistant Director decided to wait another week before making up his mind whether to hire a new company and have new alarms with state-of-the-art motion and heat detectors installed – something that would set the Institute back a pretty penny, although there were funds set aside for just such an emergency.

Mordred, naturally, suggested that somebody had set off the alarms telepathically.

"I don't think that's possible," his half brother said patiently as he handed over a box full of overpriced sweets from La Maison du Chocolat. "Perhaps you're thinking of telekinesis? Which is also not possible, by my book."

"What book are you talking about?" Mordred asked, pale blue eyes wide, and Arthur threw up his hands in despair.

"I told you you'd need to have that system replaced," Uther said over the telephone, with just enough smugness in his tone to make his older son grit his teeth.

"I'm in alarm system hell," Arthur confided to his junior conservator as they made their way home on a Friday evening, less than two weeks before their departure for London. Merlin was looking his old self again, having shaved off his scruff, in preparation for their trip, and had his hair trimmed, restoring it to its usual short, faintly Vulcanesque shape and abbreviated, spiky fringe. In the months before he had it cut, it had grown long enough to cover his ears* (something Arthur had joked about several times), and had framed his narrow face rather charmingly, giving him what Morgana called the look of a wistful young poet or Shakespearean actor.

"There are plenty of bald Shakespearean actors," Arthur had said when his stepsister asked for his corroboration, and Morgana rolled her eyes and pressed her lips together.

"I suppose you think that beard makes you look kingly and majestic," she muttered, with a disdainful sniff.

"Supposition has nothing to do with it," replied Arthur, who had _not_ told her that he was planning to remove it whilst in London. "I _know_ it makes me look kingly."

He had become fond of Merlin's scruff, but it had blurred the distinctive planes and angles of his young conservator's face, and it was nice to be able to run his mouth and fingers over those high, hollow cheekbones and that bow-shaped upper lip without the scruff getting in the way.

Merlin himself seemed entirely relieved to be rid of it, and during the night following the morning he had shaved it off, had been as rambunctious and playful in bed as Arthur had ever known him to be.

They made plans for their departure methodically and carefully, though without talking much about it, assembling the documents they would need, and making arrangements with the Pendragon household via Elaine – as Uther was disinclined to say anything about civil unions. On the rare days of good weather, they kept themselves busy so as not to think too much about the Senior Director. Arthur played football in the park with Lance and a handful of other mates (as Merlin, Gwen, and sometimes Leon and Morgana, watched from the sidelines), or rented horses from a stable an hour outside of the city, so that he and Merlin could go trail riding. He belonged to a small fencing club that he visited sporadically in order to keep his skills from getting rusty, and on several occasions he took Merlin with him, and attempted to teach him the rudiments of swordplay.

"Ow," said Merlin dolefully, flat on his back as Arthur held the tip of his foil an inch from his chest.

"You're braver than you look," said his Assistant Director, trying hard not to chuckle too openly as he hauled him to his feet. "One more go, and then we'll rest. Ready?"

"Would it make any difference if I said no?" Merlin asked without much hope.

"Not really," Arthur replied absently, swinging his foil about as though it was a broadsword.

All of this prevented them from brooding over the issue of Uther and his less than positive attitude about their plans, and also kept Arthur from feeling restless. Winter months in the city were often hard on him, if it was too icy and slushy to go out much, and if things were quiet at the Institute (in spite of troublesome matters like malfunctioning alarm systems). Lack of physical activity put Arthur into an irritable state, as Merlin had good reason to know, and the absence of any sort of challenge – be it professional or recreational – made him edgy. Therefore, Merlin devoted a great deal of time and effort (none of it unpleasant) to keeping him occupied, physically and otherwise, at home.

On one of the most dismal, cold, and rainy days, when going out was barely an option, Merlin discovered that the one quiet activity (apart from reading and research) that Arthur enjoyed was chess. This was, no doubt, due to the combative, or at least competitive, nature of the game, and Merlin resigned himself to losing match after match as his chess pieces piled up next to Arthur's side of the board. Every now and then he _did_ win a game, and was surprised to find that this actually pleased his Assistant Director.

"Good one, _Mer_lin," he would say approvingly when faced with the occasional checkmate. "It's nice to know you've got a sharp mind as well as clever conservator's hands."

"You know perfectly well that I have a sharp mind," Merlin grumbled. "What would my clever conservator's hands do without a sharp mind to guide them?"

Merlin did find, after several days and hard-fought sessions, that they were rather evenly matched; he himself, in the past, had only played chess for fun, and far less often than Arthur – who had been on chess teams at Oxford and Harvard. Once he got a bit of practice in, he began winning almost as often as his Assistant Director.

"Well, well," Arthur murmured thoughtfully after a lengthy game. He eyed his boxed-in king with one eyebrow raised and smiled. "I never thought of you as having any kind of competence with military strategy. Here's one more thing you're not hopeless at, _Mer_lin."

"Really?" said Merlin, drawing his eyebrows together. "Have you been compiling a long list of things I'm hopeless at?"

"Oh shut up, Merlin," Arthur replied, grinning, before slinging one arm round his junior conservator's shoulders. "Busy day tomorrow," he continued, shoving the chessboard aside and yawning. "Staff meeting, remember? Time for bed."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next few days were hectic at the Institute, with plans for the arrival of the Sicilian mosaic, on long-term loan from Signor Schiavone in Palermo, and arrangements to be made with Gwaine, who had promised to drop by with the keys to his brother's home, and lists of instructions on how everything in the residence worked (from the temperamental hot water tap in the kitchen to the watering schedule for the flowerbeds in the tiny garden).

"At least it doesn't have an alarm system," Merlin said to his Assistant Director, who groaned.

Gwaine had convinced Arthur that staying at his brother's was the best option for Merlin, involving no real expense and guaranteeing peace, quiet, and privacy. When Merlin asked him, somewhat guardedly, whether he himself would be in London during their stay, he simply shrugged his shoulders with a casual air.

Gwaine's promise to "drop by" with the keys led to Arthur, Merlin, Lance, and Gwen accompanying him to The Griffin for a drink. ("As long as it's not that horrible Gedref's Labyrinth!" Gwen said under her breath. "I couldn't believe it when Lance came home with that black eye!") Once they found a table large enough to accommodate all five of them, Gwaine draped his graceful frame over a chair, produced the keys, and unfolded a printed list of all of the house's idiosyncracies. Then he proceeded to regale the group with tales of behind-the-scenes mishaps at the Metropolitan Museum, where he was still employed as a technician. ("I can't believe they haven't sacked him for bad behavior," Lance snorted.) Some of these stories had them doubled over with laughter.

"It's nice to know we're not the only museum in the city that's plagued with idiocy," Arthur gasped, trying to catch his breath.

"Speak for yourself, mate," Lance managed to say. "I'm no idiot."

"Arthur's been calling me an idiot since I came to work at the Institute," Merlin muttered; Lance howled with mirth, and the Assistant Director suddenly lost a mouthful of lager (through his nose).

"Oh, how disgusting!" shrieked Gwen, and promptly knocked over her glass of red wine, which spilled all over the junior conservator, staining his favorite dark green tee shirt and leaving dark splotches on his jeans.

There was an explosion of apologies from Gwen, who ran to the restroom for tissues; Arthur stood up and hunted in his pockets for a handkerchief, whilst Lance went to the bar for some water and paper towels.

"You should take those things off and soak them in cold water," he murmured helpfully as he left the table.

"I'm not taking my kit off in the middle of a pub," Merlin said flatly.

"Hmmm," said Gwaine, smiling with raised eyebrows, and Merlin felt himself flush.

Fortunately, Gwen and Lance chose that moment to return to the table, and Gwen made embarrassed noises over the mess, offering to launder the green tee shirt (with its simple image, on the front, of an old-fashioned typewriter) and return it to him clean and pressed.

The rest of the evening went smoothly, although Merlin felt awkward and conspicuous in his damp, wine-stained clothing. Gwaine clapped him on the shoulder, and then proceeded to flirt with Gwen, to everybody's amusement. True to form, he also flirted with the female wait staff, the muscular young man behind the bar, and Merlin (he knew better than to try to flirt with Arthur), although – to Merlin's relief – he didn't single him out for special attention. Perhaps he had been imagining things, that evening of the bar fight, when Gwaine had uttered those cryptic words in Gedref's Labyrinth.

Certainly it would not do for Arthur to have even an inkling that Gwaine might find Merlin appetising. The Institute's Assistant Director was cool, collected, and civilized, but Merlin had felt the intensity of his passion and heard _"mine!"_ whispered against his ear often enough to know how possessive Arthur Pendragon was.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur might be the possessive and jealous type (as he himself was aware, although he didn't like to admit to it), but he had long since despaired of rousing similar feelings in Merlin. In the way of most lovers, he had occasionally smiled at, or even flirted with, some attractive person at a museum opening or similar social event, in the hope of seeing a spark of anger or indignation in the blue eyes of his junior conservator. None of these attempts had done anything but make Merlin grin affably in his direction. Even if Arthur mentioned any of his previous amours, he never expressed more than a polite interest or, at the most, raised an eyebrow and sighed with forbearance.

The Assistant Director had quite given up on ever getting Merlin to display a shred of jealousy, and a week before they were scheduled to fly to London, happened to let slip to Gaius that Merlin Emrys was probably the least selfish, least suspicious, least monopolizing person he had ever met.

"Professionally, I mean," he added hastily.

Gaius gave him a sharp glance and then busied himself with charts recording humidity levels in all of the Institute's galleries. "Merlin has a temper," he said mildly, shuffling the charts into a semblance of order. "Although he doesn't often lose it."

"I know, I've seen it," Arthur replied, not meeting Gaius' eyes. "But he's not, um…I'd be curious to know if…"

"Well, you know the old expression," Gaius muttered vaguely. "Be careful what you wish for, you may get it."

The old expression proved to be true less than an hour later.

Arthur strolled back to his office after a lengthy lunchtime discussion with Gaius about how to best display the borrowed Sicilian mosaic (when it eventually arrived). He dodged the few museum visitors lolling about in the hallway, ignoring their admiring glances, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. He was feeling a little sleepy, after sharing a massive sandwich and two chocolate éclairs with his Head of Conservation, and was wishing he could take a nap, when he raised his eyes to find what appeared to be a very shapely, blonde female standing at his window with her back to him.

The blonde female spun around at the sound of the office door closing and it took an effort for Arthur to keep his mouth from opening in astonishment.

"Oh," he said, stopping abruptly in the center of the room. "Sophia. Um, what a surprise."

Sophia Grainger was the last person he had dated, before meeting Merlin, and he had not seen her for at least two years. Now here she was, as pretty and doe-eyed as ever, long wheat-colored hair trailing over an apricot velvet frock, a smile trembling on her rosy lips.

"Good God," said Arthur, quite taken aback.

His visitor stepped forward, beaming, and to his complete dismay, rushed at him and flung her arms about his neck.

"Oh, Arthur!" she exclaimed, in that high, childlike voice, and pressed her mouth against his. Very nearly smothered in the flowery aroma of perfume and the stickiness of lip gloss, Arthur managed not to stagger backward, but he did get his hands up to her wrists and attempted to pry her arms away.

There was a gentle click as the door opened, and from the corner of his eye, Arthur saw his junior conservator take two steps inside the room and then stop, his hands full of condition reports and his eyes wide with surprise.

"M-mer—" began Arthur, managing to partially disengage himself from his unexpected guest. But Merlin - who had gone a little pale - put the condition reports down on the edge of his desk, and with a murmured "Sorry!" turned round and quietly left the room.

* * *

*** As in Mr Morgan's photographs from the May issue of THAT magazine.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Jealousy?**

"What on earth was _she _doing here?" Morgana muttered acidly as she came face to face with her stepbrother in the hallway.

"Who…Sophia?" asked Arthur distractedly. He had pulled himself together after Merlin's precipitous departure from his office, wiped Sophia's gooey pink lip gloss from his face, and quelled his burning impulse to rush out of the room after his junior conservator. He had no idea why Sophia had suddenly shown up on his metaphorical doorstep, but, as the Assistant Director, one had to be civilized. Instead of immediately hunting down Merlin, he disentangled himself from Sophia's clinging embrace, asked politely but coolly after her health, and offered to have her shown round the museum by one of the volunteers. (She had visited in the past, of course, but would not have seen any of the latest acquisitions.) Miss Grainger was a teacher, not a member of the museum community, but since she read glossy magazines like _Vanity Fair_, Arthur was surprised that she knew nothing about himself and Conservator Merlin Emrys. For one awful moment he even wondered whether _Uther _had sent her…but that seemed highly unlikely, and entirely contrary to his father's mode of operation.

"What _are _you doing with yourself these days?" she had asked him archly, and he had simply replied that he was preparing for a trip to London. When she said, "Oh! By yourself…?" he had smiled and responded calmly, "No."

One would think she might have taken the hint, but apparently this was not the case, as she nattered on for several minutes about how seldom she came down to the city these days, and how she missed it, and how her memories of Arthur were oh, so…special.

"I'm terribly sorry," Arthur had said abruptly, looking very pointedly at his watch. "Must run; crucial appointment. If you'd rung me, given me advance notice, I could have arranged to talk longer."

Opening his office door, he had collared a passing guard, who was to take Sophia to the library. Old Geoffrey would then find a volunteer to show her round the galleries and point out the most recently acquired works of art.

Now, facing Morgana in the hallway, he was beginning to feel both sheepish and angry. Sheepish because he hadn't managed to fend Sophia off effectively, and angry because Sophia had shown up in the first place. And annoyed with Merlin – although he knew he shouldn't be – because Merlin had walked in on them and possibly jumped to all the wrong conclusions.

"That simpering little miss," Morgana said icily. "I saw her sashaying her way to the library. I suppose she turned up with the sole purpose of trying to woo you back?"

"Not exactly," Arthur said as he looked up and down the hall, hoping for a glimpse of Merlin.

"You've got lipstick on your chin," Morgana snapped, even more icily. "Don't tell me you let her slobber all over you!"

"I didn't _let _her do anything," Arthur snapped back. "She threw herself at me. Now, if you'll excuse me, um…I'd better go downstairs."

"Ohhh," the senior curator responded, suddenly enlightened. "Merlin saw the two of you, did he?"

"Shut up, Morgana," Arthur rasped out as he stepped past her and headed for the stairs to the basement Conservation studios.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"If you can't be arsed to talk to me," Will said to Merlin, who was surveying a manuscript with an intense and moody glare, "you could at least point to the problem. I don't see any stains or creases on that vellum, if that's what you're looking for."

"Perhaps you need glasses, Will," his friend replied, wrinkling his brow. "Can't you see the lifting gold leaf?"

"Look here, mate," Will began, and stopped, eyeing his friend with consternation. Then his expression changed and he said, with rare hesitation, "I don't imagine you saw little Miss Grainger upstairs?"

"Who?" asked Merlin stiffly, poking at the offending gold leaf.

"Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth," muttered Will. "I saw her walk into the building, cool as a cucumber, this morning. Sophia Grainger. Used to grace us with her presence every now and again, a couple of years ago. Arthur went about with her for a while, back then, but everybody knew he wasn't all that smitten."

"Really," Merlin said skeptically. "If you mean the pretty blonde in the orange dress, yes, I saw her in Arthur's office."

"Well, that's like her," Will said. "She always was a bit pushy. I don't suppose Arthur was keen to see her."

"Oh?" was the cool reply. "Maybe that's why they were liplocked when I walked in to deliver the condition reports."

Will was one of Merlin's oldest friends, and although Merlin – a very private person if there ever was one – rarely confided in him about personal matters, he felt no need to hide what he'd just seen. Which had taken place, not in private, but in the workplace, where anybody could have witnessed it.

"As I said before, that's like her," Will said, to Merlin's surprise. "I'm sure Arthur had nothing to do with it. He never really cared for her that much. And it wouldn't be like _him_ to, uh, two-time his, um. I mean, he may be an upper class git, but he's not a bad fellow, and he's honorable. I'll bet he told her to get stuffed."

Two years ago, Will would have been the last person to defend Arthur Pendragon. It was amazing, Merlin mused vaguely, how his opinion of the Assistant Director had done an about-face since Arthur's famous fistfight with Valiant, and Merlin's subsequent decision to move in with him.

The subject of Will's declaration and Merlin's musings stepped quietly into the Paper Conservation studio, and both conservators raised their heads and flushed.

"Sorry to interrupt," said the Assistant Director, glancing at both young men and then attempting to get Merlin to meet his look. "Is Gaius anywhere about?"

"Oh…Gaius, yeah. He's, um, he went upstairs to Textile Conservation, and…" gabbled Will, backing towards the door. "Said he'd be back in half an hour, and if he doesn't bum cack, I mean come back, by then, I'll go and f…fetch him. Must see to St. John now, his ankles are all splinters."

"Is something the matter, Will?" his boss asked severely, but the Objects Conservator was already in full flight.

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said in the most conciliatory voice he could muster, once the door to Objects Conservation had banged shut. He took a step forward and then stopped in the middle of the studio.

"Could it wait 'til later?" Merlin asked, staring at the page of vellum lying on his worktable. "Because this thing won't."

"Won't what?" Arthur said, understandably confused.

"Won't wait," snapped Merlin. "We can talk at home." Then, as he saw a scowl beginning to form on Arthur's face, he added, "Gaius'll be back; we don't want to upset him."

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said reasonably. "Surely you don't think—"

"What I think doesn't matter at the moment," Merlin replied stiffly. "I've got to get this thing under control, and Gaius will be back as soon as he's finished upstairs."

"Right," said Arthur, now sounding thoroughly exasperated. "I'll see you at five, then."

Except he didn't see Merlin at five, and after waiting in the entrance hall of the Institute for a quarter of an hour, pacing the marble-floored space with annoyance, it occurred to him that his junior conservator was deliberately avoiding him. And the realization that Merlin _had_ jumped to the wrong conclusions and was angry with him…but also almost certainly _jealous_, gave him the odd sensation of jubilation and anxiety mixed together.

When Merlin appeared at twenty past five he followed Arthur out the front door and fell into step beside him, but he said nothing, and although his face was calm and composed, Arthur could see two spots of color burning on his high cheekbones. They walked home in near silence, speaking only when they stopped at the supermarket, to make decisions about whether they needed more bread and (lactose-free) milk. When they entered the flat, Arthur, who was still feeling slightly jubilant at the thought of a jealous Merlin ("He cares for me that much, he's _jealous_ about _Sophia_!"), turned to his young conservator and put a hand on his shoulder.

Merlin didn't pull away, or shrug off his touch, but he said nothing, and simply began unloading groceries onto the kitchen table, rather more vigorously than was necessary.

Arthur cleared his throat, twice.

"I don't know why you're out of sorts," he began, a little lamely but also with a touch of indignation. "I know what you saw in my office didn't look, er, good, but I can assure you it didn't mean a thing. As you should realize."

Merlin raised both eyebrows and looked at him.

"That was _Sophia_," Arthur said, frowning. "Sophia Grainger – I went out with her before I met you, and broke things off with her before you came to the Institute. I know I've mentioned her to you. She appeared out of nowhere and...she's a clingy, aggressive sort of girl, and I swear to you I did nothing to encourage her to fling herself on me. You can see that, surely."

"Oh, is that so?" said Merlin, who clearly did _not _see.

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said, trying to sound reasonable. "Don't tell me you're letting my reputation get the better of you. You know it's entirely undeserved."

"Entirely?" said Merlin.

"Well…you know what I mean," Arthur replied, gritting his teeth. "Anyway, you have my word that I have no interest in her, and had no desire to kiss her. That was all her doing, and I pushed her away."

Merlin raised a single, incredulous eyebrow.

"I _did_," Arthur insisted, beginning to feel thoroughly put upon and misunderstood. "I was, er, just about to, when you walked in with those bloody condition reports. I swear."

Merlin turned away from the kitchen table and sighed. "I'm not going to call you a liar," he said coolly. "Although any lawyer would tell you the evidence was fairly damning. But I don't have a naturally suspicious sort of mind…if that means anything."

"I don't suppose my_ word_ means anything, then, Merlin?" Arthur said in a scathing voice.

Merlin rolled his eyes and marched off to the study.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After an extremely quiet dinner, during which they exchanged no more than ten words, Merlin returned to the study and Arthur sat brooding in the sitting room. Brooding went against his nature; he was a man of action in every respect, and not given to extensive sulking. He very rapidly resolved to tackle the matter again, perhaps once they were in bed, although it occurred to him that getting into bed with Merlin might be a difficult thing to do at this stage of events.

After an hour or so, he heard Merlin splashing in the shower (and humming the _Marseillaise_, of all things) before making his way to the bedroom. Arthur fumbled his way to the shower through a cloud of steam, and emerged five minutes later, blinking, and hoping Merlin hadn't already fallen asleep. He was reassured on that score when he entered the bedroom to find Merlin wide awake, a book propped up on the duvet in front of him, and pillows bunched behind his head.

Arthur busied himself with sorting out his briefcase and selecting his clothes for the following day, but every so often he peered over at his young conservator, taking advantage of the opportunity to study him whilst he was engrossed in his book. Merlin always read with a kind of schoolboy concentration that was charming to watch, especially when he bit his lower lip, or drew his eyebrows together, his straight, dark lashes casting a shadow over his cheeks. A good half-hour of reading before bedtime often put him into an introspective, dreamy mood, and had the added benefit of rendering him very receptive to sex. On past occasions, when Arthur had tugged him into the sheets after one of these bouts of reading, Merlin's pliable body would go limp and light in his arms, and his head would fall back languidly, baring his throat to Arthur's lips.

(At other times, Merlin could be as assertive, energetic, and creative in bed as anyone might wish, but nothing sent Arthur into a storm of possessiveness like this supple, silent version of his junior conservator, whose eyes seemed to be looking off into the distance at a vision of whatever he had been reading moments before.)

When Merlin finally set the book aside and got up to switch off the overhead light, Arthur took the opportunity to fling himself into the bed and pull the bedclothes up to his chin. Merlin slid back into bed without looking at him, and lay down without a word. It had been a cold day, and Merlin had donned a tee shirt and pyjama bottoms…but the bedroom was chillier than usual, so he tucked the duvet above his shoulders, shivering slightly and wishing he could curl into the solid heat of his Assistant Director's body. He was far from realizing that Arthur – the sly prat! – had surreptitiously turned the thermostat down for just this reason.

He was lying with his back to Arthur, and heard the rustle of sheets as his Assistant Director moved restlessly beneath the bedclothes.

"Good night," he murmured, thinking that perhaps politeness was called for. He wasn't really angry any longer; he believed what Arthur had told him, but still! That beautiful girl with her arms round Arthur's neck and face pressed against his!

"Merlin," Arthur whispered after a moment of trying to come up with something to say. "There's nobody else. There's never going to be anybody else."

He had moved close enough to feel the warmth of Merlin's skin without actually touching. There was a pause, and Arthur could sense that some of the tenseness had left his young conservator's thin frame, but after a moment, Merlin only said, "Hmmmph."

"What's that supposed to mean, hmmmph?" Arthur said gruffly, automatically resorting to banter. "Where else could I possibly find anyone as paradoxical, insubordinate, frustrating, and impossible to figure out as you?"

There was another pause, and then Merlin shifted and turned to face him. He wasn't smiling, but Arthur could see that the look in his eyes had softened, and there was a hint of what might be amusement glinting in their blue depths. So he moved close enough to kiss Merlin on his beautifully sculpted cheeks and the outer edges of his eyelids and the corner of his mouth.

Merlin's eyes closed softly during this operation, but he cracked them open again, and this time his lips did curve in a smile.

"Don't be too sure of yourself, Pendragon," he murmured sleepily against Arthur's jaw.

"You idiot," stammered Arthur, unable to think of a more appropriate endearment as he slid his hands under Merlin's tee shirt to rest them against his back, just below the shoulder blades.

They lay quietly for a while, without moving, until Arthur finally turned out the bedside lamp. Then (doing his best not to seem impatient), he pulled Merlin more closely to him, and they loved each other very gently and drowsily.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What with one thing or another, they had completely forgotten to set the alarm clock, and woke thirty minutes late. They had to scramble to wash, swallow a mouthful of breakfast, and dress, and when Merlin – clad in jeans and his newly cleaned typewriter tee shirt – went to the bedroom to tell Arthur they might need to call a cab, he found his Assistant Director wrestling grimly with his slippery silk tie and calling upon the wrath of Lugh to descend upon his stepsister, who would pounce on him with glee if he walked through his office door at even one minute past nine.

"Lugh! Since when do you pray to the ancient Celtic gods?" Merlin snorted.

"I thought he might respond to me on your behalf," grunted Arthur, his fingers slipping as he attempted to loop the blue striped silk into a triangular half-Windsor.

"Are you quite alright?" Merlin asked as Arthur managed to knot the tie round two of his fingers.

"Not enough sleep," said Arthur, freeing his fingers. "Ordinarily, I have excellent coordination, thanks. Which is just as well, as my life seems to require speed, stealth, and an agile mind."

"So, you're able to get by on two out of three, then," said Merlin consideringly. Arthur glowered at him but made no reply as he straightened his collar.

"Don't tell me you're trying to strangle yourself," said his junior conservator, watching Arthur's losing battle with a critical eye.

"Why should I want to do that?" growled Arthur, glaring into the mirror. "I've done nothing wrong. Imbecile."

"You'd better come up with some new adjectives," Merlin replied, and Arthur saw that he was grinning, his usual open and engaging grin. It was obvious that yesterday's uncharacteristic flash of jealousy had quite faded away.

"A man of your education and background should be able to think of something to call me other than 'idiot' and 'imbecile,'" Merlin went on. "Oxford and Harvard must have done better by you than that. And I may be an idiot, but you…"

He reached for Arthur's tie, his conservator's fingers neatly wrapping the wide end over the narrow one.

"Well, what am I, precisely?" Arthur snapped, trying to hide both his happiness and his relief beneath a gruff demeanor.

"_Mine_," said Merlin, quietly and with the faintest hint of mischievous good humor, eyes lowered, as he adjusted the knot of Arthur's tie.

* * *

**I wanted to use appropriate quotes from Sophia's episode, "The Gates of Avalon," but could only find one exchange between Arthur and Merlin (see if you can find it).**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: The Merlin Emrys Guide to Packing**

In the city, true to the old saying, March usually came in like a lion and went out like a lamb, the lion being represented by a great deal of wind and rain, and occasional snow flurries or sleet. As the month had only just begun, there was nothing lamblike about the New York weather, and most mornings Arthur and Merlin slogged their way to the Institute with umbrellas and their winter coats. Because of the wind, the rain came down at a sharp angle, and by the time they reached the museum they were nearly always partially soaked.

By the time five came round they were dry, and would have to slog their way home through the wet, again. Due to Merlin's insistence that cab fares had reached ludicrous heights, and Arthur's secret fondness for walking in the rain with his junior conservator, they only took taxis when the rain or sleet or wind – or some combination of the three – were truly awful.

One evening the wind was so strong that both of their umbrellas turned inside out and the spokes snapped like twigs. They had to abandon them in one of the corner trash bins and race for home, arriving at the flat dripping wet and laughing foolishly like a pair of schoolboys. Merlin's hair lay flat against his head and droplets of water hung from the jagged ends of his short fringe, but his sharp cheekbones and fine features looked as though they had been carved from rainwashed alabaster.

"For pity's sake, _Mer_lin," Arthur remonstrated as his companion shook his head like a wet puppy, sending water in all directions, before going in search of dry clothing. Grumbling, he struggled out of his own soaked jacket, yanked at his ruined tie, and peeled off the shirt that was now clinging to his torso like a second skin. He was gingerly removing his trousers when he heard Merlin's light step behind him, and was rather touched to see that he had returned with a large white bathtowel, which he laid carefully over Arthur's shoulders.

"This is worse than London," Merlin said, and Arthur's thoughts immediately went to the empty suitcases piled next to the closet in the bedroom. "I don't think I've ever seen such a rainstorm."

"This is nothing compared to the Caribbean during hurricane season," Arthur retorted. "Have you planned out what you're packing for London, by the way?" Merlin had pulled on a pair of clean but otherwise sorry-looking jeans and a vintage brown tee shirt with Jimi Hendricks' face printed on the front. He was rubbing vigorously at his hair with another towel, and it stood up in multiple hedgehog spikes. Caught between amused affection and good old fashioned lust, Arthur eyed his disreputable-looking ensemble and reminded himself to look into Brooks Brothers on Saturday. Or even J. Crew, which carried its own brand of slim-cut suits and shirts.

"What are you planning to wear to dinner, after we get there?" he asked casually, wondering how many Pendragon relatives would have assembled already by the time they arrived.

"_Dinner?_" said Merlin in a voice of such stark horror that Arthur suppressed a grin.

"Oh, I imagine the local relatives – not that there are that many of them – will want to have a look at you."

"No," said Merlin feebly, collapsing onto a footstool. "Could you not email them a photo, so they can look at me in effigy?"

"Oh, they've already seen photos of you, no doubt," Arthur murmured, thinking of last year's _Vanity Fair_ article, with its pictures of every senior staff member at the Institute. "But they may want to inspect the real thing."

"_Inspect!_" Merlin nearly bellowed, and Arthur realized, belatedly, that he had been more than a little tactless.

"Oh, no need to worry about it now," he said airily in an attempt to change the subject. "I was only joking. And the packing can wait 'til tomorrow. Will your mum be in London before we fly in?"

"Erm, no, I don't think so," Merlin said in a slightly distracted voice. "That is…she emailed me her itinerary yesterday. I need to read it over."

Arthur wondered briefly whether Merlin had any family members who might want to inspect _him_. As far as he knew, there was only Hunith, in Ealdor, and a cousin, a lawyer called Ambrosius, who traveled a great deal. Merlin had never mentioned any relations in Armagh, where he had lived as a young child, and the gods only knew where his father was.

"Shall I ring up one of the usual restaurants and have something delivered?" he asked, feeling his insides beginning to rumble and therefore changing the subject completely. "I'm too tired and waterlogged to even think about cooking."

"You never think about cooking," Merlin said wryly, standing up. "But yeah, food isn't a bad idea. I can hear your stomach growling from here."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They had one more staff meeting to deal with, before leaving for London, and Merlin hoped that his colleagues weren't planning to make a big fuss of his and Arthur's impending civil union. Thankfully, nobody had suggested bachelor parties for either of them, although Arthur had said (in jest) that it might have been fun to have one, and Morgana had more or less stopped telling them that she should be allowed to plan the "after party."

("I don't trust her," Arthur had said the day before. "When Morgana gets quiet, that's a bad sign.")

"Are you going to report on the Cobbe Manuscript at the staff meeting, then?" Will asked, as he assembled his own notes on his latest project, the conservation of a graceful wooden sculpture of an angel, whose curls had been losing gilt at an alarming rate.

"Mmmm," said Merlin in reply, glancing at the manuscript in question. It was a wonderful example of the illuminator's art – a thirteenth-century treatise on courtly love, with small illustrations in colors and gold – and it had been in a sad condition when it first entered the Institute's collection. Months ago, Merlin had suggested conserving the piece, using a new and controversial technique for flattening the seriously creased pages and stabilizing the colors, but Arthur had hemmed and hawed and suggested that they think it over. Merlin had gone ahead and done it anyway.

"Doesn't Arthur know you worked on the bloody thing?" Will asked, surprised, and was even more surprised when Merlin shook his head.

"Well, it looks great now, doesn't it?" said Will, finally. "And Arthur can't exactly have you whipped, can he? He never exactly _forbade_ you to do it."

"He, erm, sort of did," Merlin answered with a touch of defiance, but he shoved his notes, which included before and after photos of the manuscript, into the pile of things he was bringing to the staff meeting. "Are you planning to report on the condition of the St. Sebastian sculpture?"

This piece, a sixteenth-century figure of the martyred saint stuck full of arrows (well, three arrows, anyway), had just returned from a loan to the Oswick College Museum in upstate New York. No sooner had it been uncrated – that very morning – than Will and Gaius had noticed that some of its color pigments had flaked off and were lying in the bottom of the crate, and one of the arrows sticking out of the saint's painted ribs was bent in two.

"I can't believe the museum didn't check to see the surface was stable, before they packed it up," Merlin said.

"It's not my fault if their objects conservators are all total fuckwits," muttered Will, glaring at the paint chips and reaching for a container to put them in. "Hey, it's past eleven…d'you think there are any biscuits left over from last week?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As everybody at the Institute had come to expect, Merlin was nearly five minutes late to the staff meeting, and walked into the staff lounge (where it was being held that week) without knocking. Leon had just reported on the museum's weekly attendance, Morgana was beginning an account of her recent research and need for additional travel funds to visit the National Gallery in D.C., and Will was diligently arranging his papers in preparation for his own presentation.

Lance interrupted the proceedings to remind everybody that there would be a football match in Central Park in late May, between staff from the Metropolitan Museum and participants from other smaller, local museums, including the Pendragon Institute. He and Arthur would be playing, of course, and Gwaine would be amongst the forwards for the Met.

"We'll expect the ladies to cheer us on, of course," he added, looking pointedly from his bride to the senior curator. "We'll need to drown out the squawking of that bi…that football enthusiast, Morgause."

Then it was back to business. Gaius and Gwen had nothing new to report on, so as soon as Morgana stopped speaking, Will launched into his brief explanation of St. Sebastian's current condition, backing up his words with a sheaf of color prints.

"Have you sent photos of the broken arrow and pigment losses to the Oswick?" Arthur asked, and Will nodded. "If there's any difficulty in reattaching those paint chips, we'll need to let them know. What sort of conservators do they have there, anyway?"

"Crap ones," muttered Will, looking at the printed images with a frown.

"I don't think we'll be lending anything to them again," Arthur said with an answering frown. "Thanks, Will, just see to it that their gallery director knows about this. Now, who's next…Merlin?"

Taking a deep breath, Merlin stood up and presented his material on the Cobbe Manuscript.

When he had finished, he looked from his colleagues – who were gazing in open-mouthed admiration at the before and after photos – to his Assistant Director, who appeared much less pleased.

"Merlin," Arthur said in a calm voice. "If my memory's accurate, I told you we should probably wait on this particular piece. That we didn't know enough, yet, about those particular methods of paper conservation."

"I did my research," Merlin replied stubbornly. "The technique is sound. And you didn't exactly forbid me to work on this manuscript. You only said—"

"I remember exactly what I said," Arthur snapped, his lips tightening with irritation. "All right, the manuscript looks…looks beautiful, the surface looks, um, completely crease-free, and those dirt smudges are gone. You've obviously done an excellent job. But that's not the point, is it? If I tell you to wait before doing something, I'm not joking. Not yet means not yet! What is this, a prelude to some kind of wholesale rebellion?"

"I think it's called married life, Arthur," murmured Lance, from the sofa. Gwen huffed, the rest of the staff laughed, and (to everybody's relief) the Assistant Director blushed and then grinned, a little self-consciously but with genuine good humor.

"Oh, and by the way, Arthur," Gwen said at the close of the meeting, as they all got to their feet and stretched. "Lance and I are coming to London for your, er, civil union. It'll only be for four days, and don't even think of saying no. And Gaius is coming as well, and Will. No, Arthur, don't start shouting, and scowling at us won't do any good. The Institute can do without its senior staff for a couple of days. Just say thank you and have done with it."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Less than a year ago, Merlin had told Arthur that he would never pack with him in the same room again.* This time, he made no real objection to his Assistant Director's presence as he carefully squirreled piles of clothing into his suitcase, located his passport and put it in his carry-on bag, and excavated nine dollars worth of coins, a grocery list, and three valid subway Metrocards from the pockets of his various jeans and hoodies.

"You are _not_ taking that awful excuse for a brown jacket," Arthur announced, watching the proceedings with an eagle eye.

Merlin glared at him. He had arranged his vintage tee shirts in one pile and his newer tees in another, dumped a mass of socks – unsorted and unmatched – into a plastic Ziploc bag, and flung one of his two good suits and one good jacket on top of the lot.

"I'm not taking the tux," he said flatly, hoisting the bag of socks as Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Fine; you won't need it," was the reply. "But get the morning coat out of the closet, in fact, get the entire morning suit out, and bring that. It might be the appropriate, er, costume for the you-know-what."

The corners of Merlin's mouth drooped and Arthur laughed before pulling his junior conservator into an embrace that caused him to drop unmatched socks all over the floor.

"Are you really so terrified of being legally stuck with me?" he murmured into Merlin's ear, his lips brushing the rim very lightly.

"N-no," said Merlin, his voice shaky but adamant. "I'm not. Believe it or not, I've got used to you." He jumped as Arthur bit his earlobe. "You think I need looking after, but I _know_ YOU do. The only thing I'm terrified, I mean, nervous about is signing that paper in front of your father."

"Damn my father," said Arthur cheerfully, releasing Merlin and sitting down in the closest armchair. "He'll come round, and even if he doesn't do it by the day of the signing, he'll behave himself in public. No, Merlin, the suits and jacket go into a garment bag. That is unless you want them full of creases, like that wretched manuscript, by the time we get off the plane."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I can't think properly," Merlin complained some time later. "I can't remember what I packed. I don't think I packed anything in the right order. It's all your fault."

"No it isn't," Arthur murmured, pressing his mouth to the underside of Merlin's jaw. They had eaten dinner, watched the evening news, and washed well before midnight, and then he had steered Merlin carefully away from the piles of luggage and pushed him (gently) into bed. He had been in an inordinately erotic mood, and Merlin had been very cooperative, and – Arthur told himself – it was so seldom that Merlin was completely cooperative about anything (the Cobbe Manuscript issue was a case in point) that it would have been stupid not to take advantage of the moment.

"I'm very cooperative about most things," Merlin said indignantly, halfway through. "I—don't—know—what—_oh!_—you're talking about."

"Yes you—do," panted Arthur. "Shut up."

He had lowered his head and kissed Merlin a great deal to make certain that he did shut up, at least for the duration.

"Don't worry about the bloody packing," he said now, relaxed, and sighing a little as Merlin moved fingertips over his pectoral muscles, as if to reassure himself that everything was as it should be. Merlin had a strong tactile sense, and Arthur was privately thrilled that he enjoyed running his hands over as much of his Assistant Director as he could reach, whenever they were in bed together.

"We'll go to Gwaine's brother's first, and get you settled in," he said, yawning and turning onto his side. "Then I'll go to Belgrave Square. It'll be late, and we'll need a good night's sleep. Elaine says there'll be a family dinner the night after we arrive, though."

"Do you know how to get to Gwaine's brother's, from Belgrave Square?" Merlin asked, yawning also. "I mean, there's a good chance that when we spend time together it'll be at mine, rather than yours."

"I've memorized the bus route," Arthur mumbled. He was exhausted, happy, and sated, but not quite ready to go to sleep, and he mouthed softly along the length of Merlin's throat, smiling when this elicited a faint sound from his junior conservator.

"You can finish packing tomorrow," he whispered, adjusting the tangled bedclothes and settling Merlin's head on his shoulder. He deliberately neglected to tell his young conservator that he was planning to clothes shop for him, as he had no desire to put up with the vehement protests that would no doubt follow such a pronouncement.

* * *

*** In Chapter 31 of _Outside the Pendragon Institute_.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Pillow Talk**

To: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

From: mordredpen_at_yahoo_dot_com

Subject: Your London visit

_Dear Arthur, I hope you and Merlin have a good flight. Morgana promised to bring me to London for your civil union, even though Father's worried about me missing school. I think I've memorized all the history dates I need to know for spring exams, anyway, and the Maths class is so easy I could do the homework in my sleep. I go anyway, because Miss Ryan is pretty. Please could you find me a tutor so I can do advanced calculus? Is Merlin going to stay in Belgrave Square with us? Because if he is, I promise to protect __him from Father whilst I'm there. Love, Mordred P.S. Thanks for the choc bars with the cherry filling. Could I have some more, please?_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"The alarm system's been good as gold all week," Arthur said to Leon, wrinkling his brow with puzzlement.

"It was last week, as well," Leon muttered, equally puzzled. "There must have been a glitch with the wiring."

"Either that, or the ghosts of Pendragons past have been breaking into offices," Arthur said gloomily.

"Why the long faces?" Morgana asked as she suddenly appeared round the corner, walking so rapidly that she nearly crashed into her stepbrother and his Head of Security. "Have you caught somebody trying to touch the art? Or another high school couple trying to do the nasty behind one of the pedestals?"

"It's nothing," replied Arthur shortly. "We were just discussing the alarm system. What's _your_ hurry, Morgs?"

"I need to ask Gaius about something about that Sicilian mosaic we're borrowing," Morgana said, scowling. "Signor Schiavone says it's in excellent condition, but when Gaius looked at the high-res digital pics he said he thought he saw a few problems. There shouldn't be any difficulty in displaying it next to the Courtiers Tapestry, though. It's going to be a wonderful display, and every medieval art historian is going to want to compare the two. I mean, the similarities are incredible. Even to that figure…you know, the one that looks like Merlin."

"Right," said Arthur, a little absent-mindedly. "You'll keep an eye on things, won't you, when I'm away? Be sure to read the fine print on the revised loan agreement form, when it comes back from Sicily. And don't forget, we have to issue the Certificate of Insurance."

"I'm not likely to forget anything, Arthur dear," Morgana muttered waspishly. "Now run along, and don't worry about this place. You've been away for long stretches of time before. The Pendragon Institute will still be standing when you return." She stepped closer to Leon and put her bejeweled hand on his arm, her crimson lips curving in an intimate smile.

"Oh yuck," said Arthur, and strode rapidly away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur's final act, before the end of the workday, was to sit down with Gaius and review a number of issues that could come up during his absence.

"I think you can rest assured that the museum won't burn down whilst you're in London," Gaius said dryly when Arthur asked him whether he thought the staff was generally content with him. "We'll manage. And the 'understaff,' as your father calls them, all seem to hero-worship you, so you needn't worry about a mutiny or revolt."

This was certainly true of the security guards – "Arthur's knights," as Morgana called them – who were fiercely loyal in spite of the salary freeze the world's economic woes had imposed on the entire staff during the past year. Although there had been no pay raises with the New Year (a sad break with tradition), Arthur had gone without his year-end bonus so that the security guards and maintenance people could get theirs. (He had then bullied and guilt-tripped Morgana into agreeing to go without hers, in spite of her moans about needing to replenish her wardrobe, and the Conservation Department had followed his lead without his having to ask.) Uther had coughed disapprovingly into the telephone when he heard of these decisions, and told Arthur that guards, maintenance workers, and cleaning staff should not be mollycoddled and should simply learn to tighten their belts when funds for bonus pay were in short supply. Arthur ignored him, and the staff worshiped him as a result.

None of the guards or other employees had left to seek other jobs until two days ago, when the young man who looked after the gift shop stockroom had departed, claiming the Getty Museum was offering him a better salary and the position of Senior Salesperson, and that he had always wanted to move to L.A. anyway.

"Who? Edwin?" Gaius said when Arthur told him this. "Well, good riddance as far as I'm concerned. I've never met a more sour-faced fellow in my life. Did his work, I suppose, but always tried to make you feel as though he was doing you a great favor, whenever you asked him for something routine."

"You know how to reach me by telephone if you need me," Arthur murmured, going through his notes. "And I'll have my Blackberry. Look, when you, Will, and Gwen come over to London for the…um…"

"Don't forget Lance," said Gaius. "He'll be going as well."

"Whatever," replied Arthur, distractedly. "What was I saying? Oh yes – when you all come over for the…thing, I'll see if I can't get a group discount for you at a hotel."

"Thank you," said Gaius, placidly. "Now Arthur, we're all going to a great deal of trouble to see you hitched properly, so don't even think of running off and eloping before we get there."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Shortly after five o'clock, Arthur left the Institute and sat down on the stone lion at the foot of the front steps, to wait for Merlin. On this one day it wasn't raining; although it was windy, the temperature was mild and the sky blue. The Assistant Director was not a superstitious man, but he hoped this was a good sign for the next few days to come, weather-wise and otherwise.

Sitting quietly in the sun, waiting for Merlin, Arthur mused that he had had no qualms at all about entering into a legal and binding arrangement – a "marriage" (or whatever it was one called a civil union nowadays – with his junior conservator. He would not have proposed to him otherwise. It wasn't simply that he enjoyed his company, enjoyed their joking, their banter, and their ease together, not to mention the unbelievably fulfilling sex. It was their ability to communicate, sometimes without words, their mutual (but _absolutely unspoken_) respect, and their inner love of what they might have to call, for lack of a better word, justice, that made their bond so unique. Of course Arthur valued Merlin's own, singular traits: his impish, sometimes rather dark sense of humor, his awkward tenderness, his refusal to yield to Arthur's occasional bullying, his professional confidence as opposed to his quiet, almost shy public demeanor, and his surprising level-headedness under pressure.

Uther might mutter at him for not being able to find a woman to his liking, and there was no question that Arthur had always liked women. Although he had acknowledged his bisexuality to himself when he was quite young, he had probably had more female lovers than male. The softness, roundness, and complexities of the female body had always given him pleasure. Of course men had an entirely different sort of appeal. With young men, near his own age, there had been (to the warrior in Arthur's soul) the added spice of conquering someone of the same gender and similar strength, except that this contest took place in bed and not on a battlefield. However, before Merlin, he had vaguely assumed he might marry someday, dutifully give Uther the grandchildren he was longing for. He had never considered establishing any permanent sort of relationship with a male partner. Until he came to know Merlin Emrys.

"Sorry," came Merlin's voice from above, and a startled Arthur raised his eyes to see his junior conservator standing in front of him, looking mildly apologetic. "I was helping Gaius clean up the mess in Paper Conservation…I didn't think it would take so long." He grinned ruefully and then stood waiting for Arthur to stand up.

"You could have rung my mobile, you idiot," Arthur growled, but he was grinning also, as he looked up at the slim young man facing him, hair a little ruffled in the rough breeze, thumbs hooked into the pockets of the black jeans that made his legs look endless. He really hasn't a clue, Arthur thought to himself, how _unbelievably beautiful_ he can look at the oddest moments. He stood up, brushing city dust from the lion off his trousers. "Let's go. I'm famished."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bags had been packed and piled on one side of the bedroom. Dinner had been consumed, the washing up done, the flat more or less tidied. Ellie, the cleaning lady, would be coming in twice a week to water the plants, dust, bring in the mail, and see that everything was in order. Merlin was now sitting up in bed and Arthur was at the window, his hands resting lightly on glass as he looked out into the quiet, lamplit street, where wind-tossed tree branches indicated that the weather had changed yet again.

"Have you heard from your Father?" Merlin asked cautiously. He himself had received an email from Hunith, who would arrive in London not long after they did.

"Mmmmr," said Arthur, wrinkling his nose, and Merlin wasn't certain whether this was an affirmation or the beginnings of a sneeze.

"Gwaine rang up this afternoon," Merlin continued. "He said he actually might be in London when we do the you-know-what. And Morgana said Leon is thinking of accompanying her and Mordred, when they fly over."

"Good lord," replied Arthur. "This thing is getting bigger and bigger."

"Will they all fit into the Registry office?" Merlin said jokingly. "They may have to stand outside."

"I wasn't talking about the civil union," murmured Arthur, one eyebrow raised.

Merlin rolled his eyes, trying not to grin. "What do you do, Pendragon, sprinkle testosterone on your breakfast cereal? Get serious."

"Alright then," Arthur said, smiling a little, his brow and palms still pressed against the chilly glass. "We really _do_ need to discuss procedure. I've hired a car to take us from Heathrow to Gwaine's brother's. We'll, um, drop your luggage there and go out to dinner. Then I'll go to Father's. The next day's that wretched family dinner…I'll come and fetch you." He turned away from the window and walked across the room, rubbing his hands together briskly.

"What's wrong?" Merlin asked as Arthur flung off his toweling robe and got into bed.

"Hands are freezing," Arthur replied. "Trying to warm them up."

"Ow!" said Merlin with a start. "Let go! Your hand _is_ freezing."

Arthur uncurled his fingers. "Sorry. Now…what was I going to tell you? Oh yes, I'm giving you an extra set of keys to Father's house, but I'm not telling Father. I doubt you'll need to use them anyway. Did you put Gwaine's brother's keys in your carry-on bag? He said the front door's a problem to open, but you'll get the hang of it."

"Yeah, I know," Merlin answered, checking things off in his head. "The cold water tap in the bathroom drips. The fridge makes loud rumbling noises but the kitchen's in the basement and you can't hear it upstairs. I remember what he said about the front door. You have to twist the key a little. He said it's because the bolt is so stiff."

"Hmmm," said Arthur. "So's this."

"Just put it on standby, will you," said Merlin. "We need to get things straight."

Arthur snorted with laughter.

"What I _meant_," Merlin snapped, "is that we need to have a battle plan for the, erm, for going to the register office and, what's it called, giving notice of intent?"

"We have to wait for seven days to do that," was the reply. "Don't forget to pack that jacket I got for you in London."

"I already did," Merlin said as he ran his eyes over the luggage at the other end of the bedroom. He then sat bolt upright, having spotted the large and impressive-looking shopping bag sitting next to his carry-on.

"What's that, Arthur," he asked in a deceptively docile voice.

"What? Oh…that. Just some, er, clothes I picked up for you the other day," Arthur answered casually. "That is. Just a few, um, I thought. For the dinner, the day after we get there."

"Arthur," said Merlin, now sounding slightly strained. "You're not making sense."

"Oh damn it, _Mer_lin!" snapped Arthur, frowning. "It's just some bloody trousers and one or two other things. Nothing to lose your temper over."

"Who's losing his temper?" said Merlin, raising both eyebrows. "You're shouting, not me. I've asked you, repeatedly, to please _not_ buy me things, but it's obvious you'll never listen. It's making me feel like a kept, erm, conservator, but I'm not going to get angry at this hour."

"Actually," Arthur muttered with a grudging smile, "it might be entertaining if you showed up at dinner, or for our civil union thingy, in your usual kit. Of course, Father would bust a gasket, as the Americans say." He rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head.

"Speaking of which," Merlin said curiously, "am I going to have to say something when we sign that paper at the Registry, or do we do this thing in silence?"

"I really don't have any idea," Arthur responded. "We'll have to ask."

"Am I going to have to say, 'I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Merlin Emrys, may not be joined in matrimony to his Royal Pratness, Arthur Pendragon,' and all that other wedding-type stuff?" Merlin asked a little querulously.

It was difficult to remain straight-faced when Arthur roared loudly with laughter, his head flung back against the pillows, his mouth wide open.

"Oh, those teeth!" said Merlin, drawing his brows together. "Look out, Lestat." He waited patiently until Arthur stopped howling and tried to catch his breath, and then took advantage of his briefly weakened state by rolling on top. He braced himself with his arms as he stared down at his Assistant Director's nobly chiseled features, blue eyes still watering with mirth, and lower lip quivering with the remnants of laughter.

"We should sleep now," he said finally, brushing Arthur's blond hair off his brow and smiling a little. "Big day tomorrow." He yawned, and then stretched and wriggled a little, drowsy, but distracted by the rise and fall of Arthur's chest beneath him.

"I can sleep during the flight," replied Arthur, to whom Merlin's wriggling had done a number of things. His hands slid up Merlin's arms to his shoulders. "After tonight, we won't have much time alone together, at least not until after we sign ourselves over to each other," he continued gruffly, his eyes on the cupid's bow of his companion's upper lip.

Merlin chuckled. "Sign ourselves over to each other? You make it sound like a business deal."

Arthur chuckled also, but privately he was sobered by the thought that for the next three weeks he would be Merlin-less at night. There would be no banter before bed, no post-coital murmurings, no ridiculous jokes and insults first thing in the morning. And should he wake in the middle of the night, he wouldn't be able to reach out and cradle his sleeping conservator in his arms until he felt drowsy again.

Aloud, he merely said, "A business deal? Well, in a way, it is. But no worries; it isn't exactly a hostile takeover."

Merlin made a noise between a sigh and a derisive snort, but his eyes, gone dark blue in the light from the bedside lamp, were gentle. "No takeovers, hostile or otherwise." He looked down at his Assistant Director and saw that he was no longer laughing, that his eyes had narrowed slightly and his expression had become expectant. "I shouldn't mind taking _you_, just now, unless you do. That is, unless you mind because you think we should be abstaining before we're made official partners for, erm, life."

"You must be joking," Arthur said in a pseudo-shocked voice. "Abstaining? After all that talk about expanding civil unions and stiff bolts? Not a chance. And no, of course I don't bloody mind! Idiot," he added with a mixture of exasperation and passion as he adjusted his limbs and pulled Merlin down, wondering as he did so whether the bed in Gwaine's brother's home would be comfortable, and large enough to accommodate the two of them.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: At the Starting Gate**

Arthur woke early, and spent the next five minutes running over his to-do list in his head and watching Merlin sleep, sprawled all over his side of the bed, hair rumpled, black lashes resting lightly above those cheekbones. Then he got out of bed and walked to the study, where he reviewed the instructions he had written out for Ellie the cleaning lady, and checked his emails.

Before heading for the shower, he replied to his little brother's email of the previous day.

To: mordredpen_at_yahoo_dot_com

From: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org

Subject: Maths class

_Dear Mordred, I know you're a good student, and are far ahead of your schoolmates, but don't get cocky about Maths! Miss Ryan won't like it. As for London, no, Merlin won't be staying at the house, but of course you'll be able to see him. Morgana tells me the two of you will be arriving a day or so before the event. Keep doing your homework, even if it's too easy, mind Morgana (unless she goes completely off the rails), and don't forget to call your mum every night. She can't wait to see you. Arthur P.S. I'm sending two boxes of those cherry-filled choc bars by messenger before I leave this morning._

Returning to the bedroom, washed and shaved but not dressed, Arthur found his junior conservator sitting on the edge of bed, rubbing his eyes and looking half awake.

"Ready to take wing, _Mer_lin?" he asked in his loftiest tones, trying not to smile at the sight of Merlin's hair standing completely on end, and his blue eyes still bleary with sleep. "For somebody who was named for a bird, you look singularly un-flightworthy."

Merlin stopped rubbing at his eyes. "What about you?" he mumbled, looking round for something to put on.

"I'm ready," Arthur replied smugly, waving a hand at his luggage. "Everything's packed and set to go."

"_You're_ not," Merlin said woozily, trying to make order out of the tangled beclothes. "Unless you're planning to fly to London in the nude." He reached for his robe and pulled it on, standing up with an effort and shoving his hair back from his brow with both hands.

Arthur paced absently between the luggage and the window as Merlin's eyes followed him gravely. He had, Merlin noticed, lost a little weight (not that he had ever needed to lose any), and his waist was trim and narrow beneath his handsomely sculpted upper torso. When Arthur turned towards him, he lowered his eyelids and pretended to be absorbed in the incised dragon on his signet ring, but Arthur had seen him looking.

"_Mer_lin," he said firmly, wondering why he had left his own robe in the bathroom and resolutely trying not to think about pushing his companion back into bed and…"Unless you want me to leap on you and make us late to the airport, you had better get dressed and put the coffee on."

"It's _your_ turn to put the coffee on," Merlin grumbled, yawning, but he dragged his eyes away from his naked and pacing Assistant Director, and marched to the kitchen. There, he switched on the light and the coffee maker before repairing to the shower, where he blasted himself with hot, and then cold water in an effort to clear his head.

"Are you certain you have Gwaine's brother's keys?" Arthur asked over breakfast, steadfastly downing a cup of coffee as dark and strong as Merlin had been able to make it. (It rivaled anything Gaius brewed up at work.) "You've packed them in your carry-on?"

"Yes of course I've packed them!" snapped Merlin, and then bit his lip with chagrin when he saw them lying on the kitchen counter.

Arthur gave a loud and histrionic sigh and began to move bags and suitcases into the hall. Merlin made a face at him behind his back, but he was thinking, at the same time, of how he was going to miss this flat whilst they were away, living separately, in London. The winter season had been a busy one, but there had always been the evenings: working away at correspondence and research in the shared study, going out for a drink or a bite to eat at some local café or bistro, walking home in the freezing wind (Arthur with his determined, almost military stride, Merlin loping alongside and occasionally bumping into him), muttering insults at one another as they readied their briefcases and garments for the following day ("_Mer_lin, don't be ri_dic_ulous, you can't wear _that _to the Institute, the collar's worn to threads!"), and lying beneath the duvet, wrapped round each other, very nearly breathing each other in, open-eyed in the dark.

"Arthur," he said dreamily, and then stopped because he realized that he had been about to make a complete and soppy fool of himself. Which he wasn't going to do, not when Arthur was wearing his most arrogant "lord-of-all-I-survey" expression as he looked from the luggage to Merlin, and then at his own reflection in the hallway mirror.

The telephone rang shrilly, cutting off Merlin's reverie and Arthur's perusal of his well-cut suit and his own good looks.

"It had better not be The Dragon," said Arthur, wincing. "He sent an email saying he wanted my thoughts on Father's plans for gallery expansion. I told him I'd be busy for several weeks, but he was insistent. The man has no _heart_."

"A dragon's heart is on its right side, not its left," Merlin responded vaguely, remembering his childhood reading in mythology, and Arthur snorted and raised his eyebrows as he reached for the phone.

"Well, it can't be Gaius," Merlin said in a subdued voice. "He rang me last night."

It was, in fact, neither Gaius nor The Dragon, but Morgana, full of excitement at their impending departure.

"It's obvious," Arthur whispered, putting his hand over the receiver as she nattered away. "She can't wait until I've gone, so she can begin running things at the Institute the way she wants them."

However, it seemed that this was not why the senior curator had rung them up. She was, rather, filled with dire warnings about her plan for an after-party, and how Arthur was _not _to sabotage it, and how she expected them to go along with the idea, or else.

"I knew it," Arthur said to Merlin, covering the receiver for a second time. "When she got so quiet, last week, I knew she had something up her sleeve."

There was more animated chatter from Morgana, and Merlin turned away, praying that this wasn't going to put Arthur into a truly foul mood.

"Morgana," Arthur said impatiently, one eye on the clock. "I've said yes to some kind of after-party – I thought a champagne lunch or brunch would be good – but if you go and plan something elaborate without consulting me…that is, myself and Merlin…I won't take it lying down."

Morgana then said something, inaudible to Merlin, that made Arthur go bright red and clench his jaw.

"You have the most filthy mind," he snarled into the telephone. "If lover boy only knew. Oh well, perhaps he does, but I don't want to know about what you and he...look, just keep an eye on things, will you? "

He put the telephone down softly, and wiped his brow.

"What was all that rubbish you were talking about dragon hearts?" he said, frowning. "Morgana sends you her love, and said to we're to have a nice, relaxing time in London. Relaxing! That girl can be the devil incarnate when she puts her mind to it. I'd love to sic her on Cornelius Sigan."

Merlin smiled obligingly, but he was standing in the doorway to the study, his eyes going round the room as though he was about to embark on a lengthy period of exile – as if making an effort to memorize every detail. His glance lit on the pair of desks, neatly piled with books and papers, and he wondered whether Arthur was feeling as melancholy as he suddenly was. In fact, his Assistant Director's almost complacent expression had vanished as soon as his conversation with Morgana began. Now his brow was furrowed with a hint of anxiety (something he normally would have hidden), as he watched his junior conservator staring doggedly into the study with that half-dreaming, half-distracted look that got to Arthur every time.

"Oh come here, then!" he said roughly. Merlin turned, caught a glimpse of his face, and came into his arms like an obedient child.

"Right," Arthur muttered a little unsteadily several minutes later. "I'll ring for the doorman to get a cab. Put the luggage by the door, and if you forget anything I swear I'll beat you."

"Clotpole," muttered Merlin almost too quietly for Arthur to hear.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kennedy Airport was the usual beehive of departures and arrivals, crowds, lines, families with restless children, and hordes of tourists. Once through the security checkpoint, ensconced in the waiting area and listening for their flight to be called, Merlin watched with amusement as passing women and girls gave Arthur the once-over whilst he paged through a newspaper, oblivious to their stares.

Arthur scanned emails one last time, on his Blackberry, before they boarded the plane. There was one from Elaine, saying that she was looking forward to seeing them, and how excited and happy she was about their visit. Another, from Uther, was a simple, terse message wishing his son a pleasant flight. He mentioned neither of these to Merlin, who was now beginning to look quite cheerful as he checked his mobile for texts.

"Gwaine texted me," he said to Arthur, grinning, as he switched off the device and slipped it into his carry-on bag. "He says I'm not to mind the mess in the house, if there is one, and that he asked his brother to stock the fridge before he left. Says there's a bottle of champagne there, if we want it, and plenty of things in the pantry."

"Lucky you," said Arthur with a touch of envy. Lucky Merlin, tucked away in Gwaine's brother's little house with nobody to bother him or spy on him or tell him what to do with his life. Whilst he, himself, would be under the almost constant scrutiny of his father and whichever family members had already arrived in Belgrave Square. "Let's hope the luggage arrives intact."

"Hmm…intact?" replied Merlin, fishing his ticket out of his pocket as he absently trailed after the crowd of passengers now filing toward one of the gates.

"Wrong queue," Arthur said flatly, taking him by the elbow and pulling him in the right direction. "You'd end up in Madrid. That might make Father smile, _but I_ wouldn't be very pleased with you."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Perhaps the weather had it in for museum personnel, or civil unions, or junior conservators who hadn't had enough sleep. At least this was how it seemed to Merlin as he jounced about in his seat during the frequent periods of turbulence. Arthur, of course, had fallen asleep almost immediately, and Merlin had to shake him awake when the flight attendant came by to ask about meals.

"Blecch," mumbled Arthur, minutes into his lunch, which was supposed to be meatloaf but resembled an asbestos mat covered with gravy. He looked as put out as a schoolboy Mordred's age, and Merlin (who had made short work of his wilted airline salad) was forced to conceal his laughter beneath his napkin.

"We can go out for a proper meal after we've left my things at Gwaine's brother's," he finally said, as he watched Arthur drowsily but stolidly munch his way through his own salad. "That is…I don't know his neighborhood at all, but I'm certain there's something…"

"No doubt," said Arthur, blinking, in tones that really meant _shut up, Merlin_, and so Merlin shut up and spent the next hour or so staring out of the window at layers of white clouds above the Atlantic. When he turned to look at Arthur again, he found that he had gone back to sleep, wearing an expression of almost angelic serenity that made Merlin execute a mental eye-roll and sigh with mingled admiration and wry amusement.

Deplaning at Heathrow went more smoothly than either had hoped, and the luggage had indeed arrived intact. The wait at Customs was less than five minutes, and before long they were in the hired car, speeding (well, not exactly speeding, given London traffic) in the direction of Gwaine's brother's home. Arthur was now wide awake and looking bright eyed and much less disgruntled; when their driver stopped in front of a modest, narrow three-storied house, he stepped out of the vehicle and had heaved their luggage out of the boot before either the driver or Merlin had finished unfastening their seatbelts.

"We have to stop calling this place 'Gwaine's brother's house,'" Merlin said once they were inside, and exploring the quiet interior with its simply furnished, white-walled rooms and plain, filmy white curtains at the windows. "It's _Agravaine's_ house. Look, there's a bit of garden out back."

"Very pleasant," replied Arthur, investigating the bedrooms – there were three, two of which were extremely small, but cozy and filled with light. "Uh, this must be the guest bedroom…you might want to take this one."

"You mean _you _want me to take this one," said Merlin, watching Arthur test the mattress with his hand. He was hoping with all his heart that Gwaine wasn't planning to drop in unexpectedly, with a mind to testing any of the mattresses. "It's got the widest bed. I'll bet it belongs to the master of the house. Anyway, we ought, erm, we ought to go out and eat something" They had agreed, in advance, that Arthur would go straight to Belgrave Square after delivering Merlin to Agravaine's. He would call for Merlin the following evening, to bring him to the Pendragon family dinner.

"You need a fortifying meal," Merlin continued. "Before you face your family."

"My father, you mean," replied Arthur, dryly, but after one regretful look at the bed he followed Merlin downstairs, and collected his jacket and wallet. "You're right, I suppose. Best to face the enemy on a full stomach."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: Family Ties**

"Oh, you've a beard!" were the first words out of Elaine's mouth when she threw open the front door to find her stepson standing outside with a small pile of luggage.

Arthur returned her hug and kissed her on the cheek. He had always been fond of his stepmother; life with a perfectionist and rather distant father would have been difficult if it hadn't been for her warm and cheerful presence, and he knew that she had supported his relationship with Merlin in the face of Uther's disapproval.

"I'll remove it before the, uh, civil union," he said, smiling. "It's a temporary, er, ornament."

"How was your flight?" she asked, ushering him into the parlor, where his father had taken up an imposing stance by the marble mantlepiece. (If he didn't pose himself there deliberately, Arthur thought to himself, I'm a monkey's grand-uncle.)

Aloud, he said, "The renovation looks splendid, Father." This was the truth, as the restoration and painting of the house's interior, completed only months earlier, gave an added lustre to the handsome early nineteenth-century residence. Carpets and furniture upholstery had also been cleaned, or refurbished where necessary, furniture polished, and Arthur noticed that even the gilt on old picture frames had been carefully touched up.

"So it should," replied Uther Pendragon, unfolding his arms and reaching out with one hand to clasp his son's shoulder, briefly. "It took them long enough. The work went on for more than half a year. And though it was no hardship to live in that Kensington house for the duration, it was more than a relief to move back home. How are you, Arthur? You look well."

"I'm quite well, thank you," said Arthur heroically, straightening his back. He could see his father's eyes scanning his face, his expression faintly wistful. Was he attempting to find something of his long-dead first wife in his son's features, his smile, the sunny color of his hair? "As you are, I trust."

"Darling, you must be exhausted," Elaine interrupted, putting one soft hand on Arthur's arm and gesturing towards the sofa. "I know it's a bit late, but some tea…or brandy?"

"Thanks," said her stepson, gratefully, without indicating his preference. He sat down gingerly on the re-upholstered sofa and instantly sank several inches into yielding, cream-colored cushions. Uther was looking at him steadily, but he managed to keep his own face devoid of anything that might give away his concern about Merlin's reception at tomorrow's dinner, his acceptance (or lack of it) by other members of the Pendragon clan.

"You've left clear instructions with Morgana, I'm sure," Uther said in his most authoritative voice. "Between her and Gaius things should go smoothly during your, ah, absence. Your flight was on schedule? And you dropped…er, off at that friend's house, did you?"

"Yes, I dropped _Merlin_ off at our friend's brother's home," Arthur replied calmly. "He should be quite comfortable there." Far more comfortable, he thought, than he would be here, in the midst of the Pendragon household and under his father's critical eye.

"Excellent," said Uther, with an attempt at heartiness that deceived neither his wife nor his son. "Now…about tomorrow. Dinner's at eight, and Elaine's told Cook about young Merlin's, ah, unusual dietary habits."

"There's nothing unusual about being vegetarian," Elaine interrupted crisply. "Or lactose intolerant. Arthur, your cousin Dinadan's already here; we've put him in the second guest room. He can share it with Kay, when Kay decides to put in an appearance. Dinadan's gone out with some old school friends, but should be back at any moment. Bedivere won't be able to come until the day before the ceremony. I understand you're going to see dear old Pelles Fisher-King in Bath. Now, how's Mordred? He says he's still liking his school, I'm so pleased. I can't wait until he arrives with Morgana."

"Mordred's great, actually," murmured Arthur, grinning. He might call his little half brother an evil munchkin but he was fond of the boy, and it gave him pleasure to see how brilliantly Mordred and Merlin got on. "Leagues ahead of his classmates, as we all knew he would be, but he likes them, and his teachers as well. He's still…well, you know, a bit intense, and sometimes he's still withdrawn, but on the whole I'd say he's enjoying himself. Misses you, of course."

"Well, I don't want him falling in with the wrong crowd," Uther said almost fretfully. "Especially once he's in his teens. One hears so many things about American teenagers, after all. And their manners leave a great deal to be desired."

"Oh, and all the teens in London are little paragons of virtue?" Arthur said jokingly, ignoring the sharp glance his father sent in his direction. "Refinement epitomized?"

"You had excellent manners, as I recall," Uther responded as though making an official pronouncement.

"Mmm," said Arthur in a noncommittal voice. He hadn't had any choice in the matter, with Uther as a father. Open rebellion would have been out of the question. Of course he had rebelled in other ways, secretly: sneaking out of the house late at night (escaping through a kitchen window that had a faulty latch), roaming the streets of London's more bohemian neighborhoods, drinking himself sick with school friends, stuffing himself blissfully with Chinese or Indian takeaway – the sort of food that was never available at his father's table, where costly blandness seemed to be the general rule. On several occasions, he had been accompanied on these excursions by Morgana, who had always been on the lookout for some way in which to flout her stepfather's rules and regulations.

"I understand that Gaius, Lance, and what's his name, William, are coming to London for your…your…" his father was saying. "In addition to Morgana, of course. My God, the Institute will be practically empty of staff."

"No, not really," his son retorted. "There'll be plenty of people left to look after things for a few days. There's nothing crucial on the docket until late spring."

"Cornelius' exhibition?" Uther rapped out, brows raised. "And that Sicilian loan?"

"We've already begun preliminary work on both," Arthur said briskly. The altogether unsavory image of Cornelius Sigan popped into his head as he spoke, and suddenly all he could think was that if that slimy character ever attempted to lay a hand on Merlin again, he would clobber him to within an inch of his life.

"And the alarm system?" said Uther sharply.

"It's under control," Arthur replied, gritting his teeth. "And Leon's keeping an eye on it."

"Your old bedroom's ready for you," Elaine said soothingly, putting her hand on Arthur's arm again, and he suddenly realized that his eyelids were beginning to droop. "I made up the bed just this morning. If you're tired, you can go up now. I suppose you'll want to ring Merlin, though, to make your arrangements for tomorrow."

Uther frowned and seemed about to say something, but his wife gave him a stern look and he subsided. It struck Arthur, as he got to his feet, that although Elaine had always seemed the old-fashioned ideal of the even-tempered, dutiful wife, loving, attentive, and nurturing, she had never been cowed by her husband's authoritative demeanor. Since his visit to London with Merlin the previous year, he had come to realize that she had more of a backbone than he had thought, and was not the sweet but flighty airhead he had once believed her to be. He had always been devoted to her, but now he respected her as well.

"There's no need to wait up for Dinadan," Elaine continued, as Arthur made a concerted effort not to yawn. "Why not turn in now? You can see him at breakfast."

"Right, brilliant idea, thanks," Arthur responded, stretching unobtrusively as he stood up. "I can ring Merlin from upstairs."

"I hope he's spoken with his mother," Elaine murmured. "I quite look forward to meeting her."

For some reason, mention of Merlin's mother put Arthur in mind of his father's face several minutes earlier, the unusual wistfulness of his expression as he surveyed his son. It would have been almost pitiable, except that Uther had never – within Arthur's memory, at least – looked pitiable in his life, and the expression had lasted for all of three minutes. No doubt it had been there because of Ygraine, the mother Arthur had never known. He had been told that he resembled her, and the one photograph he owned appeared to corroborate this claim. He knew so little about her…it seemed silly to wonder what his life would have been like if she had lived. What would she have thought of his career and interests now; how would she have felt about his junior conservator?

"I'll say goodnight, then," he murmured, looking meaningfully in the direction of the hall. His father nodded wordlessly but when Arthur passed him, he clapped him solidly on the back as he had been accustomed to do during his son's football-playing boyhood.

As Arthur headed for the door, he surprised his stepmother by seizing her round the waist and landing a loud, smacking kiss on her left cheekbone.

"Arthur, dear!" she said reprovingly, but she was smiling and her china blue eyes twinkled at him as he started up the stairs.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There were several emails on Arthur's Blackberry, including one from Morgana, demanding to know how things had gone upon their arrival. Arthur shot off an abrupt response, expressing thanks for her concern, sending regards to their colleagues, and saying, finally, that he wished she had inherited her mother's disposition.

After sending a brief message to Gaius, he picked up the telephone and rang Merlin.

"Mmrrf," said Merlin into the receiver. It was obvious that he had been asleep, and Arthur could hear the rustle of sheets as his junior conservator floundered about.

"I could really use a drink," Arthur growled, exaggerating a little on account of his fatigue.

"That bad?" asked Merlin in a muffled voice.

"Well…sort of bad."

"It could have been worse," said Merlin.

"How exactly could it have been worse?" Arthur snapped, scowling.

"You could be... dead," came the undiplomatic reply. "He's your dad; he's not going to flay you alive."

"They way he looks at me, sometimes," Arthur grumbled, "you'd think he was considering having me flogged until I came to my senses."

"Really?" said Merlin, doubtfully. "I find that hard to believe. Besides, if there's anybody he'd like to see flogged, it's probably me."

"Oh shut up, Merlin," Arthur responded, digging through his luggage for his toothbrush. "You're not making sense; you're half asleep."

"No, not exactly," said Merlin, struggling to enunciate. "I was having a dream. I think it was about you."

"Naturally," said his Assistant Director with intentional complacency. "I can't help it if I'm the best-looking man you know."

"No," Merlin said again. "I think it was a _nightmare_."

"You're completely disoriented from jet lag," Arthur continued without missing a beat. "I am not nightmare material." He located the toothbrush and flung it onto his bed. "But you're okay otherwise?"

"I'm fine," said Merlin, his voice still slightly muffled and sleepy. "I've been pondering what to wear to your family dinner. Those jeans with the holes in the knees, I thought, and my vintage Who tee shirt."

"If you dare," replied Arthur, chuckling brusquely, "I'll find some way to punish you that you won't soon forget."

"Prat," said Merlin, yawning. "Do your worst. I'm stronger than I look."

"Have you heard from Hunith?" asked Arthur, changing the subject, because even mention of the subject had already had a physical effect on him. "You should ring her, if you haven't yet."

"She rang me an hour ago," came the drowsy reply. "Said she'd be in the city next week, and her friends in Chelsea are putting her up until the you-know-what. And she's eager to see you."

For some reason, this brought a lump into Arthur's throat.

"Merlin," he said quietly, his voice gentle under the pressure of his sudden emotion. "Of course I'll be delighted to see her. Tomorrow, though – we have that dinner to get through. There'll be two or three cousins, perhaps an uncle or two, and their wives."

"Erm," said Merlin.

"You'll probably find the group to be very interesting," Arthur went on encouragingly. "You needn't worry that they're all like my father. And the younger ones are very up to date and open minded. They wouldn't be uncomfortable around us unless we started snogging frantically in public and calling each other sickly-sweet pet names."

"Pet names!" snorted Merlin with horror. "God forbid."

"Fortunately, we don't use any," replied Arthur. "Although I believe I once threatened to call you Mer-Mer if you didn't behave. I can't recall the circumstance.* Shall we say half past six tomorrow?"

"Fine," replied Merlin, and yawned again. Arthur could just imagine him, curled up in bed in Gwaine's brother's house, wearing one of his most disgracefully ratty (but clean) tee shirts and boxers rather than pyjamas, black hair spiky against the pillow, black lashes hovering over sleepy blue eyes. Then Merlin yawned for a third time, and Arthur pictured him fidgeting in an attempt to get comfortable in the strange bed, twisting the hem of his tee shirt in his usual absent-minded manner, inadvertently exposing his pale, flat stomach with its taut, tight musculature and the protruding hipbones beneath.

Any more of these mental images and he was going to need a cold shower.

"Good night then, Mer-Mer," he said deliberately, and grinned at the sound of Merlin's indignant squawk at the other end of the line.

* * *

***In _Outside the Pendragon Institute_, ch. 34.**

**Quotes from "The Sins of the Father," Episode 8, Series 2.**

**And same-sex marriage is now legal in New York State. But the events of this fic took place earlier in the year, before the passage of the gay marriage bill on June 24.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: Under the Microscope**

"Oh," said Merlin, staring into the mirror, a moment before he clapped one hand over his eyes and groaned.

Arthur cocked his head to one side, consideringly.

"That's not...bad," he said judiciously, looking his junior conservator up and down. "Not too disgraceful for a Pendragon family dinner."

"I hate you," Merlin replied dejectedly, wriggling his shoulders a little.

"Really?" said Arthur conversationally. "But I've got to quite like you. Now that I know you're not as big a fool as you look."

"Yeah," muttered Merlin under his breath, scowling. "I feel the same." But Arthur made no response, thinking, and not for the first time, that Merlin resembled nothing so much as a nervous thoroughbred colt, long-limbed, spindly, and wide-eyed. Arthur had very gently bullied him into wearing the Burberry trousers and shirt, and fine wool pullover, that he had purchased for Merlin at Barneys in New York before their departure, his hair had been convinced (by dint of a great deal of combing and tugging) to lie smooth, and his look was one of understated stylishness and slender elegance. He would be, Arthur knew, deferential and polite, speaking quietly when spoken to, and he could only hope that the people assembled to meet him would treat him considerately. Pendragons were renowned for their leadership qualities, their fortitude, their good looks coupled with intelligence, but few of them were known for their tact.

Merlin gave him the hollow-eyed look of one who was about to mount the steps to the gallows, and Arthur (stifling a grin) put a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"Beautiful Merlin," he said quietly, in his gentlest voice, one that he rarely used within Merlin's hearing.

Merlin looked at him sideways, again, like a skittish colt.

"I think we're ready," Arthur continued encouragingly. He shrugged his own shoulders in his well-cut jacket. "Don't you remember you once said to me, 'Let matters take their course'? Let's go."

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A gathering of Pendragons had all the charm and appeal that one might expect from an urban family groomed to a brilliant polish, expensively educated, socially important, physically attractive, and conscious to a T of lengthy pedigree and solid wealth. However, to Merlin, well-educated, cultured, but definitely small-town rural and middle-class in terms of background, this imposing assembly had all the charm and appeal of the Spanish Inquisition.

More of the far-flung Pendragon kinspeople had shown up than Arthur had expected. They milled round Uther's handsome parlor and dining room, stylishly clad and smiling, from the cousins and more distant relatives to the spouses (who were therefore Pendragons by marriage only) and their children. They drank martinis or sparkling mineral water (the children had lemonade) and peered surreptitiously at Arthur Pendragon's _inamorato_. Arthur, who had spent the morning renewing his acquaintance with Cousin Dinadan (a good-natured blond giant who reminded him a little of Lance's mate Percival) and Cousin Kay (who had attempted to bully him all through their childhood until Arthur finally beat him in a fair fight at age thirteen), stood in front of his junior conservator to fend off the most intensely curious of his various relations.

Arthur's relatives were courteous (Pendragons were seldom openly rude to a person brought into their midst by family), but their rabid curiosity was unmistakable. In the past they had seen "society column photos" of Arthur in glossy magazines, sometimes in the company of a lovely lady, sometimes with a man, but they had never imagined that he would want to _settle down_ with a male partner, certainly not somebody like this rather shy, boyish-looking young conservator from...where exactly was he from? Oh yes, born in, hmmm, Northern Ireland, and then raised in...where the bloody hell was Ealdor, anyway? Cousin Kay grinned cheerfully and shook Merlin's hand, but the look in his eye, when he turned to the others, clearly said, "What do you make of him?"

Merlin fared better with Dinadan Pendragon-Wells, who was bluff and hearty and genuinely friendly. Mrs Dinadan was blessedly motherly—in spite of being quite young and pretty—and their four-year-old twin daughters were as easy going as their parents, eventually winding themselves round Merlin's legs like a pair of cats.

Uther, naturally, presided over this sizable gathering with the benevolent but intimidating deportment of a reigning monarch. He had welcomed Merlin unsmilingly, but had thumped his shoulder, shaken his hand, and then introduced him around. Merlin thanked all the gods there might be for the presence of Elaine, who had hugged him, taken his arm, and treated him with open affection, asking him questions about Mordred and encouraging him to talk about events at the Institute. Once Arthur saw that his stepmother had things in hand, he felt able to drift away from them for a little while, to talk with some of the family members he hadn't seen in years, and answer their questions about "this attractive young man...oh of course, we've heard he's so talented...Cambridge, did you say...and when did you, uh, become _engaged_?"

"He's terribly thin," said Linnet, a Pendragon spouse known for her tart, extremely direct, no-nonsense manner of address. "You must feed him up, Arthur!"

"I only wish I were as thin," mourned Edith Pendragon-Wells, Dinadan's sister, who was a handsome but decidedly _not thin_ straw blonde, a few years older than Arthur. "What's his secret? Or is it simply genes?"

"Darling," Elaine murmured, at Arthur's elbow. "I've seated Merlin next to you at dinner. We don't want to overwhelm him with Pendragons to the point where he loses his appetite."

"I shouldn't worry," Arthur whispered back. "He's actually quite courageous and steadfast underneath that shy, modest demeanor. But perhaps you're right about dinner. How could he possibly eat if he has Edith nattering on at him on one side, and Kay saying something obnoxious on the other?"

Dinner was elaborate and splendid, served on blue-and-white Chinese export-ware porcelain, and Merlin manfully made a pretense of enjoying every bite. Arthur, accustomed to the demanding nature of his family, calmly made conversation with several people at once, a skill he had developed long ago as an Assistant Director required to do a great deal of socializing with colleagues in the museum world. Every now and then he felt the pressure of Merlin's knee against his, hidden by the damask tablecloth, and responded with a return nudge, or a little, lopsided smile.

"Of course we're _so_ looking forward to seeing Morgana," drawled one of the Pendragon wives. "I know the most divine young advertising executive who's dying to be introduced to her."

Arthur stifled a snort of laughter, imagining what Morgana might have to say to _that_. The divine ad exec would be lucky to get away with his ego intact. And Leon might have something to say about him as well. He could sense Merlin chuckling silently on his left, and pressed an elbow carefully against his ribs to sober him.

"You've gone to the Registry Office already, have you?" Kay asked Arthur through a mouthful of pudding. "I don't imagine you can do that sort of thing in New York."

"It's coming up for a vote in the state senate, sometime in summer," Arthur replied coolly, irked by his cousin's dismissive tone. "And no, we have to reside here seven days before officially signifying our intent. After that, there's a fifteen day wait. It's good to see that life's treating you well, Kay. Any junior Pendragons on the horizon?"

This was a deliberate dig at his older cousin's marital history. Having said "I do" three times in the past, Kay was now on the lookout for Wife Number Four.

"A toast!" said Dinadan from the other side of the table. "It's been far too long, mate. You should visit more often." He raised his wineglass in the air, and almost instantly a forest of Pendragon arms shot skyward. "To Arthur and Merlin."

"To Arthur and Merlin," the other occupants of the table repeated dutifully, and the children seated at their own table nearby shouted out the words as loudly as they could, despite dimpled cheeks stuffed with cake. Uther looked as though he had just bitten into a lemon, but he mouthed the toast all the same, prompted by a stern look from Elaine.

Once everyone had risen from the table and migrated to wherever soft chairs and sofas were available ("I've never eaten so much at one clip...I think I'm going to fall over," Merlin moaned), Arthur found himself cornered by Dinadan, Dinadan's sister, and Elaine, all of whom wanted to talk about pre-signing dinners and after-parties.

"Nice young chap, that Merlin," Dinadan said approvingly. "Very intelligent. Now you go easy on him, Arthur, he looks as though he might break if you squeezed too hard."

"Oh shut up, Din," snapped his sister Edith. "Don't be vulgar! He's lovely, Arthur, and I don't care what certain people say." Her glance took in Kay at one end of the room, and Uther at the other.

Arthur laughed and then grimaced. "Sure you want to do this, are you?" Kay had muttered to him over dinner, and he had simply shot his cousin a look of weary tolerance, because he had never questioned his resolve to enter into a legally defined, permanent tie with Merlin. He had mind up his mind, and knew, in his bones, that he would never regret it.

A moment later, Elaine touched him softly on the arm, and he turned to see that Merlin - so svelt and striking in his elegant dark clothes, his lips curved in a smile of conscious politeness - was once again ringed with Pendragons and relatives of Pendragons, nearly all of whom were eying him with a kind of eager inquisitiveness.

Arthur's possessiveness, never completely dormant where Merlin was concerned, blazed into life; he squared his shoulders and went to his junior conservator's rescue, like a knight wading through a mass of hungry, fire-breathing, um...dragons.

Half an hour before midnight, the party broke up as various Pendragons and their kin headed off to their cars. A few were a bit the worse for drink (and would need to rely on designated drivers), most particularly Cousin Kay, who grabbed Arthur by the shoulder with a broad, wolfish smile.

"Interesting lad, there," he said, slurring a little and pointing with his chin in Merlin's direction. "Quite the PYT. Pretty young thing."

"You've been listening to old Michael Jackson songs," Arthur responded calmly. He and Kay had always had a somewhat complex relationship, friendly at one moment, antagonistic at the next, but he was not going to let his cousin's drunken rambling bother him now.

"Look, Arthur, I'll drive Merlin home if you like," Dinadan said, elbowing his way through a crowd of his relations. "Then I'll come back for the wife and kids. It shouldn't take much time...you can come along as well."

Arthur gave his cousin a grateful look and went in search of his overcoat. It might be March, but it was still cold, and a light rain was falling beyond Uther's handsomely paneled front door.

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Dinadan drove to Gwaine's brothers' without a single wrong turn, and parked in front of the little house at midnight sharp. Merlin thanked him and fumbled in his coat pocket for the key, as Arthur got out of the car and walked up to the door with him.

In the small, comfortable sitting room, Merlin struggled out of his coat and raked both hands through his hair, returning it to its usual spiky state.

"You handled it quite well," his Assistant Director murmured, smiling. "There was no reason for you to be so nervous, idiot."

"I feel as though I should get drunk," Merlin said in an aggrieved tone of voice as he divested himself of his elegant wool pullover. "Ow! Help me get this thing off."

"I can see you're desperate to get back into your logoed tees and awful, threadbare jeans," Arthur said resignedly. "And no, you shouldn't get drunk. At least...not really drunk. You've had quite a lot of wine and champagne already."

"I can't get drunk," replied his junior conservator. "The only liquor in the house belongs to Gwaine's brother." He tore off the expensive Burberry shirt, tossing it onto the sofa, and then he was in Arthur's arms, all lean, sinewy, and silken-mouthed.

The force of his lunge sent them both crashing into the wall, and then into a coat rack and a tall, wooden bookcase. They staggered sideways, dizzy with need, and hit the bookcase again. Completely forgetting about his cousin, waiting patiently outside, Arthur groaned and slid his hands down Merlin's smooth, naked back to the waistband of his trousers, spinning them both around so that Merlin was pressed against the wall.

"Quickie?" panted Arthur, gripping Merlin's hip with one hand, and with the other halfheartedly nursing his shoulder where it had banged against the bookcase.

"No, no!" gasped Merlin, glancing out of the window to where Dinadan was patiently sitting in his car. "We can't...you have to...your cousin's _waiting_!"

Arthur let his breath out slowly, making an effort to quell the almost frantic lust that had taken hold of him the moment they had set foot in the little house.

"You know," he said, "I'm not going to be able to hold out for three weeks. We'll have to meet at _a hotel_ or something."

Merlin's fingers were straightening Arthur's jacket, adjusting his collar. "What's on the schedule for tomorrow?"

"Nothing," replied Arthur, still breathing hard. "I'll call for you before lunch."

"Great," said Merlin, whose breathing had slowed, although his eyes were still bright with passion. "Although I don't think I'll be able to eat for a week."

"I ought to ignore your protests and simply ravish you," Arthur grumbled as Merlin pulled his shirt back on and walked to the front door. "But I suppose you're right about Dinadan...he's got to retrieve his wife and children and head back to his hotel."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," said Merlin serenely, holding the door open.

"Tease," snapped Arthur as he stepped outside, and he sighed as the door clicked shut behind him.

Dinadan was paging through a copy of The Times when Arthur slid into the passenger's seat next to him.

"Alright, Arthur," he said jovially, eying his slightly rumpled cousin with amusement. "Enforced chastity isn't much fun, is it? Let's get you back to the house, before your father sends out spies to hunt you down."

Arthur gave a reluctant laugh as Dinadan turned the key in the ignition. It was clear as day that the next three weeks were going to be anything but restful.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Temptation, of a Sort**

When Arthur called for Merlin the following day, at noon, Merlin opened the door within seconds of hearing his knock. He had slept soundly, very much to his own surprise after having consumed a meal large enough, by his reckoning, to have satisfied a small dinosaur. Relieved to have passed muster at the Pendragon gathering—at least he hoped he had—well rested, bathed, shaved, and fortified by coffee, he felt ready to face the world and eager to be alone with his Assistant Director in the privacy of this cozy London house.

After more than two years of knowing Arthur Pendragon, Merlin was still struck by his remarkable good looks every time he saw him, and after two nights apart it seemed to him that Arthur had never looked handsomer, his jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened, and shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his stylishly cut fair hair only slightly windblown. Merlin stepped back to allow him to enter; once Arthur was inside the dim little hallway, Merlin shut the door and turned to him, sighing with relief as Arthur's arms slid round his waist.

"I don't suppose you brought any sandwiches?" he murmured against Arthur's ear. "I'm starving. Forgot to buy supplies yesterday. I slept well, though; did you?"

"No I did not, you idiot," growled Arthur as his lips sought the sensitive spot on Merlin's jaw, just below the ear. "How could I, after you threw me out in such a state?"

"I didn't throw you out," Merlin protested, wriggling. "But we couldn't…I mean, your cousin Dinadan was _waiting in the car_."

Arthur grimaced. "He's a good sort, is Dinadan," he said, releasing Merlin and stepping back. "He would have understood. But you're right, his wife and children were waiting, it wouldn't have been fair to keep him sitting there in limbo whilst we—no, I didn't bring any sandwiches, but I'm meant to be taking you to lunch with Cousin Enid. She insisted. She and Elaine are taking us to the Connaught. And I couldn't get out of it without seeming ill-mannered."

"Oh," replied Merlin, sounding faintly deflated. "The…the…that means I have to put on something different, doesn't it?"

He was wearing his second-most disreputable pair of jeans and a grey hoodie that had seen much better days.

"I think you had better," said Arthur, biting his lip so as not to smirk. "Unless you really want to be stared at. The ladies are meeting us in half an hour. Now go and change, like a good conservator. I'll wait here."

"Why?" asked Merlin, with the sideways look beneath lowered lashes that always sent Arthur's heart rate up, along with something else. "Are you afraid you won't be able to control yourself if you watch me?"

"_Shut up_," said Arthur sternly, aiming a half-hearted slap at the side of Merlin's head. "There's no need to look so smug. But you'd better get a move on, or we'll be late and they _will_ think we've been up to something, instead of just talking about it."

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Even before evening came round, it had become obvious to Merlin that Arthur was going to have very little time to spend with him in anything resembling privacy. Uther had arranged a dinner meeting with several executives from Albion Inc., the corporation on whose board he had sat for many years. These gentlemen were active contributors to the funding of the Pendragon Institute, and there was simply no way for Arthur to get out of it.

"Let's hope they're all ancient geezers who won't want to linger over cigars and brandy," Arthur grumbled, when he dropped Merlin off at Gwaine's brother's house in the late afternoon. "But it looks as though Father and I will be going over Institute business for the next few days. We even—God help me—have to meet with Cornelius Sigan about his exhibition. But I did manage to reserve a day next week for us to drive to Bath, to see old Pelles Fisher-King, as I'd promised to do. Father can hardly object to _that_."

"Hmmm," said Merlin, a little regretfully. But he was smiling, and looked neither angry nor disappointed. The luncheon with Arthur's stepmother and cousin had gone well; he had continued to charm Enid, as Arthur had suspected he would. But now he would be left to his own devices for most of the week, and Arthur managed to swallow his own disappointment, pulling his irritating junior conservator into a ferocious embrace before leaving him at the front door.

"You needn't worry I'll get bored," Merlin said to him via his mobile phone, an hour or so later. "I've brought plenty of work." Arthur heard papers rattling in the background, and could easily imagine Merlin sitting on his bed in the midst of Institute reports and photographs, reading glasses perched on his nose, wearing some horrible tee shirt dating back to the 1980s or 90s, and looking distinctly edible with his hair standing up in peaks and jeans nearly sliding off his pale, bony hips.

"Well don't just sit there fussing over Registrar's reports," Arthur snapped, finding it difficult to put aside these imaginings and focus on what he was going to say to the executives from Albion Inc. "You have time to spare, even if I don't. Go out and _splurge _a little, tomorrow. Get something nice for yourself. Just make certain it isn't a wretched band tee shirt, or the latest monograph on art conservation."

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Merlin's idea of splurging was to go out and buy a second pair of the eyeglasses he used for close-up work and reading.

He was able to order a pair—same prescription, new and different frames—without any difficulty, and had them in his hands the following day.

"They're exactly what I needed," he explained to Arthur on the telephone. "You've always said I ought to have two pairs. What on earth would I want with a designer neck scarf anyway?"

"It would be an improvement over that rag you usually wear around your neck," replied his Assistant Director, sounding even more aggravated than he had the previous day. Whether this was due to annoyance over his series of business meetings or to unsatisfied lust was anybody's guess. "But it's just as well you bought a second pair of glasses. You keep losing the first pair, or leaving them in the oddest places. I can recall finding them in the same drawer as my underwear."

"You've got a one-track mind," Merlin retorted. "I've never put them in your underwear drawer in my life. But before I forget—I've just received an email from Gaius, and another from Morgana. Gaius says arrangements have been made for the Institute people who are flying over for the, um. And Morgana wants pics of that family dinner, if you took any. She says she'll roast your cousins over a slow fire if any of them have been unkind to me."

"She'll roast them anyway," said Arthur, amused. "Whether they've been unkind or not. She takes great pleasure in tormenting Pendragons. Not that I always blame her, when it comes to my beloved family. Any news about Mordred?"

"Mordred is making our, erm, 'wedding present' himself," Merlin said. "I don't imagine it'll be another Father Detector? Anyway, he sent a message that I'm not to worry, because he doesn't think anybody in the family has ginger hair."

He could hear Arthur roaring with laughter. "I can't believe it; he still thinks you're frightened of ginger people. Isn't it about time he outgrew that sort of thing? I mean, he talks about neutrinos and quarks and sub-atomic whatever, but he can't figure it out when somebody's speaking in jest? He probably still thinks we discuss particle physics when we get into bed together. Not that we've had the opportunity lately. So…are you going to go out and do some shopping?"

"No," said Merlin decidedly. "I'm going to have lunch, and then I'll clean the bedroom and put it in order—it's dusty, and there are books and papers all down one side of the bed, by the wall. It's the least I can do to repay Agravaine and his family. I might even get ambitious and wash the windows. I'm perfectly capable of carrying on undistracted—unlike some sex-obsessed people I could name."

"I am _not_ sex-obsessed," replied Arthur with dignity. "The next time I'm on top of you, I'm going to recite the periodic table of the elements, from memory. That should make my little brother happy."

"Sex-obsessed," said Merlin with conviction.

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If words could conjure up a presence, Merlin's surely did…at least so it seemed to Merlin when he answered the knock on the front door later that very afternoon. There on the front stoop stood none other than Gwaine, brother to the owner of the house, smiling amiably and looking as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

There was no doubt in Merlin's mind that Gwaine was one of the most sex-obsessed people he had ever met, although to be fair, he was quite civilized about it. He never name-dropped, and never pressured anybody if, by some odd chance, he found that the person in question wasn't interested in him, and he treated all of his conquests with courtesy and tact. He also treated them to a great deal of sex, or so Lance claimed, and was rumored to be so good that his lovers left his flat all starry-eyed the morning after.

It had never been made clear whether Gwaine preferred girls or men, but it was obvious that he was happy to make room in his bed for either.

"Oh…Gwaine," said Merlin at the sight of him, and took an involuntary step backward. He liked Gwaine, enjoyed his company, and was grateful to him for providing his brother's London house. But—

"All right Merlin," murmured Gwaine cheerfully as he sauntered through the door. "Don't worry, I haven't come home to roost; merely stopping by for a visit. I'm staying with Mum for a few days, then flying back to New York. I should be able to come back for your wedding, though."

"It's not a _wedding_, really," said Merlin, taking another step backward. "But of course it'll be brilliant if you can be here."

"Arthur not about?" asked Gwaine casually, looking round the room and then looking Merlin up and down.

"N-no, not just now," Merlin answered, gesturing at a well-upholstered chair in the hope that Gwaine would sit down. Gwaine remained standing.

"How are things in New York?" Merlin went on with very real curiosity. "I don't suppose the Institute's collapsed without us."

Gwaine laughed. "Not exactly," he replied, grinning. "Morgana, Gaius, and Geoffrey appear to have things well in hand. Morgana's tyrannizing over everybody. Will says half the population of Ealdor has been emailing him with questions about you and Arthur. Lance wants to know whether he should bring his tux for your after-party, or if an ordinary suit will do."

"I…erm…" muttered Merlin, flummoxed, as he had no idea when or where this party was going to take place, and how formal it was going to be.

Gwaine smiled at his confusion.

"Merlin," he said quietly, and the way he said it was a caress, just as though he had put his hand on Merlin's nape and let it slide down his shoulder and the length of his arm to his wrist.

Of course Gwaine hadn't even touched him, was standing a good eight feet away. But the way he had spoken – that is, crooned – Merlin's name had had almost the same effect.

Fine, well. If there had been no Arthur, or if Merlin and Arthur had never met, he had to admit that Gwaine might have struck him as tempting. Somewhat tempting. And God knew, except for Arthur, nobody had ever given him such a look of smoking sensuality coupled with genuine friendliness. But when all was said and done, Gwaine could never compare with Arthur in Merlin's mind. Arthur, with all of his good points and negative points, arrogance and sweetness, sense of fair play and short-fused temper, uniqueness, and beauty, was part of his life now, neatly woven into the fabric of his thought patterns. He could not and would not do without him. And would never betray him, whether they were legally joined or not.

He hoped very much that Gwaine was aware of this.

But Gwaine was looking at him, out of the corner of his eye, as though Merlin, in his green checked shirt, open at the throat, his new glasses with their big, dark frames à la Jamie Bell or Johnny Depp or Woody Allen, faded jeans and rumpled hair, was the most delicious thing since chocolate sauce.

Merlin swallowed and took another step backward. "Can I, erm, get you a drink?"

Something of his panic must have shown in his eyes, because Gwaine suddenly sat down and smiled in the most comradely way.

"I'll have a lager, if there is one," he said soothingly, looking at his watch. "Can't stay long, I'm meeting my mum for tea at some overpriced pastry shop. You'll give Arthur my regards? I'll see you both when I come back to London."

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Arthur had gone to bed early, but found himself unable to sleep.

It had been a busy day of meetings, and then going over various Institute matters with his father. Uther had been in a surprisingly jovial mood, perhaps because of the presence of so many Pendragons. They had had tea with Cousin Kay, who had behaved himself, refrained from exchanging barbs with Arthur, and told them that his father, Ector, would try to get to London on the day of the signing. Arthur had maintained a smiling social demeanor until just before dinner, when he occupied himself by shaving off his beard—as promised—and exchanging his jacket, white shirt and tie for a black Armani tee shirt that fit him closely enough to show off his physique without being, well, overly suggestive. Then he went down to dinner, smooth-faced and slightly disgruntled, and excused himself shortly after, pleading fatigue.

Now, even after a hot bath, he couldn't sleep and was _hungry_. Grumbling to himself, he slid out of bed, dressed, and made his way down to the kitchen, hoping that things were still arranged the way they had been before the renovation.

The basement kitchen had been handsomely remodeled, but at least the refrigerator—nearly twice the size of the old one—was in more or less the same place. It was when he had finished munching his way through a cold but tasty chicken leg left over from the previous night's meal that Arthur suddenly thought of the window with the faulty latch, through which he had made his late night escapes so many times in his youth. With a grin he reached for the white-painted frame, remembering his forbidden excursions through the London streets, occasionally accompanied by his stepsister, hours after Uther thought him tucked up in bed and asleep. He toggled the latch automatically, feeling the metal cool and smooth under his fingers, and—

It was still broken.

Instinctively, Arthur pushed the window open and measured the opening with his eyes. He had grown, certainly, since his days of teenage rebellion, and it wasn't certain that he would be able to fit through…but before he could even consider the ludicrous consequences of being stuck half in, half out of the window of his father's kitchen, he had hoisted himself onto the kitchen counter and thrust his broad shoulders through the aperture. The rest of him followed easily enough, and as he let himself drop to the cement, he remembered with a kind of glee the thrill of escaping from Uther's kingdom that he had experienced as a youth with nothing more serious on his mind than Maths exams, whether anybody had spotted him having a wank after accidentally seeing his best mate's sister undressing at the beach, and whether or not he would be made captain of his fencing team at school.

Now here he was, a grown man with social position, professional position, responsibilities and an admirable reputation, thinking of sneaking off in the dead of night to have unbridled sex with his junior conservator—who was admittedly his fiancé of sorts, but still…

Within moments he was at the curb, peering through the darkness for a cab, and thanking the gods that his keys and wallet had been in his jeans pockets when he put them on.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I don't believe it!" said Merlin blankly when he opened the door.

"Shut up, Merlin, and let me in," said Arthur authoritatively. "I know it's late, but…hmm. What sort of a day did you have, then?"

"I cleaned the two bedrooms and the bath," replied Merlin honestly. "And did some paperwork. Oh, and Gwaine dropped in this afternoon. He didn't stay long, just wanted to know how things were working out." He was grateful that Arthur had his back to him as he felt himself blush. "The room I'm using looks much better; I've stacked all the books and papers and washed the windows."

"Show me," said Arthur abruptly, and Merlin led him to the stairway, relieved that his Assistant Director seemed completely disinterested in Gwaine's unexpected visit.

"After you," Arthur said courteously (Merlin gawked at him in astonishment), standing aside to let him go first. They went up the narrow stair single file, Merlin in front, Arthur walking so close behind that Merlin could almost feel the warmth radiating from his body. Then Merlin flung open his bedroom door with a flourish, saying "Ta da!" – he was really proud of the job he'd done – and Arthur stepped inside.

Two seconds later, Merlin was flat on his back on the guest bed, protesting feebly as Arthur's fingers fumbled between them at the buttons of his shirt. He stopped protesting when Arthur took his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down very softly, and his own hands slipped beneath Arthur's stylish black tee shirt to feel the movement of muscle beneath that golden skin. He could feel heat and an impressive tumescence through their clothes as Arthur ground their hips together.

"You've missed my company, it seems," he said, in an effort to lighten the intensity he saw in his Assistant Director's eyes.

"I'll show you how much," muttered Arthur, a little savagely, as he practically destroyed Merlin's green checked shirt in an effort to get it off.

"Oh, you've shaved off your beard!" Merlin said almost incoherently a few moments later. "You've…oh, _oh_!"

"What powers of observation," rasped Arthur before he crushed Merlin's lips beneath his own.

* * *

**RL has been extremely busy lately, so I apologize wholeheartedly to readers to whose comments I may not have responded.**


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: The Road to Bath**

Merlin ran his fingers lightly along the angle of Arthur's clean-shaven jaw and yawned.

"The beard was nice," he mumbled, shifting a little beneath Arthur's handsomely sculpted chest. "You know, stylish and all that. But I think I prefer you without it. Ow!"

Arthur was entertaining himself by attempting to wind tendrils of Merlin's silky dark hair round one of his fingers, but the spiky strands were really too short for him to get much of a grip.

"Sorry," he said sleepily, releasing his hold on Merlin's hair and toying, instead, with one of those ears. "Sorry about the shirt as well."

Merlin rolled his eyes and groaned—it was a new shirt—but Arthur chuckled and turned onto his side, cradling his junior conservator in his arms. "I'll buy you a new one."

He spoke without condescension, but Merlin bristled ever so slightly. "I can buy my own shirts, thanks very much."

Arthur said nothing, simply yawning and turning his face into the pillow.

"I can!" insisted Merlin, in tones that combined hurt and annoyance. "You think I have no taste in clothes, but in fact I do."

Muffled guffaws emanated from the pillow.

This was too much, and Merlin tugged hard on a handful of golden hair as payback, but his Assistant Director only captured both of his wrists, rolled over again so that they were practically glued hip to hip by the dampness of their bodies, and pinned Merlin for the second time that night. Then he released one wrist so as to be able to run the tips of his own fingers over that pillowy lower lip, and full, bow-shaped upper one. Merlin's lips were soft and warm…and delicious, Arthur reminded himself as he bent over them for what must have been the fiftieth time that evening. Merlin made a faint noise of surrender and kissed back.

"I'd almost forgotten what a glutton for love you can be," Arthur murmured in a satisfied voice, nearly half an hour later. They were sprawled in a quivering, exhausted heap, but Arthur's hands were still busy, slowly and gently re-learning the contours of that slender, boyish body, the silky texture of that milky skin.

"What?" said Merlin in what was meant to be a reproachful tone, but his own voice was syrupy with fatigue and pleasure. "You're calling _me_ a glutton for…? If that isn't a clear case of identify confusion…"

"Shut up," sighed Arthur, blissfully, as he made a drowsy effort to disentangle himself from Merlin's arms and legs. Even now, as sated and sleepy as he was, the electric slide of skin against skin made his…his libido stand up and take notice. Had he ever really appreciated the satiny smoothness of the inside of Merlin's elbows before? "And go and buy yourself a new shirt tomorrow. I won't have it said of me that I destroy your wardrobe every time I jump your fragile little bones."

"My bones _are not_ fragile. We can't all have gladiator physiques like you, Pendragon. And have you seen the prices for men's clothing in London?" Merlin retorted. "They're worse than in New York. I can wait until I we go back; there'll be Spring sales at—"

"For God's sake, _Mer_lin," Arthur said, scowling. "There's no reason to worry over the expense. We'll be legally joined in less than a month, you idiot, and what's mine is yours."

Merlin raised his eyebrows.

"Within reason," Arthur added, and Merlin crowed with laughter.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Aren't those the clothes you were wearing yesterday?" Uther asked with obvious disapproval as Arthur dropped into his chair at the breakfast table, his black Armani tee visibly wrinkled and his hair rumpled in spite of his attempts to comb it into place with his fingers. Arthur shrugged, his face a study in innocent nonchalance, and his father gave him a searching look.

He had climbed back through the kitchen window that morning, a slightly more difficult feat than climbing out the previous night. There was no time to retreat to his bedroom to change, and so he had simply made his way to the dining room, where he sat down next to Elaine and opposite Kay, reaching for the coffee with bleary-eyed determination.

"Dinadan's wife and children have gone to their country house for the week," Elaine informed him as he helped himself to eggs. "So he's returned to the second guest bedroom, upstairs. He got in late last night, after you, er, went to bed. Now he's gone out to do some errand, but should be back at any moment."

"You look totally fubarred, coz," Kay observed from the depths of his second scone. "Out playing the field yesterday? Last few days of freedom, eh?" Arthur looked determinedly at his toast, so as not to pour a stream of hot coffee into his cousin's lap.

"What nonsense, Kay," Elaine said tartly, passing the milk. "I'm sure you had a lovely evening, Arthur," she added very quietly, patting his arm. "Next time, please don't leave shoe prints on the kitchen counter…they're a dead giveaway. I had difficulty explaining them to Cook."

This last comment had been spoken under her breath, and Arthur bit his lip, but gave her a grateful look as he surreptitiously knocked a bottle of pepper sauce all over Kay's breakfast plate.

"When do you and, uh, Merlin sign the, um," Uther asked solemnly over the rim of his coffee cup, not quite meeting his son's eyes. In response, Arthur fumbled with the touch screen on his mobile phone, searching for the calendar.

Funny, how none of them seemed able to say the bloody thing outright, including himself and Merlin. Arthur felt a sudden flash of irritation.

"Oh, um, it's a fifteen day wait after we give notice of intent to enter into an um. And we can't give notice of intent until we've resided in this area for seven days. That should give you some idea of when the um's going to take place. Which reminds me, I'd better email Morgana and remind her she's promised to be one of our witnesses. You know, when we actually sign the um."

"There is no reason to be impertinent, Arthur," Uther said stiffly, as though his firstborn son was still a child. Elaine sighed almost silently, but the tip of her shoe nudged Arthur's ankle under the table, and he decided, wisely, to hold his tongue. Fortunately for everybody, Kay's face had been buried in his Belgian waffle (honestly, it was a miracle the man wasn't the size of a sumo wrestler) during this exchange, and Arthur was spared any snide remarks on his part.

Uther presumably regretted his statement a moment later, for when they all rose from the table, he clapped Arthur genially on the shoulder, wished him a pleasant morning, and asked him to convey his greetings to "uh, Merlin." Then he strode to the front door, calling over his shoulder that he would be home by eight that evening, and made his exit, leaving his wife and son to roll their eyes in almost perfect unison.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What I don't understand," muttered Merlin under his breath, "Is why our notice of intent has to be publicly displayed for fifteen days before we sign this thing. Do they think fifteen days of consideration will cause us to either pledge undying devotion or realize that we hate each other intensely?"

He and Arthur had just left the register office, where they had been required to appear in person to give notice of intent. Having satisfied the disinterested official that they were who they claimed to be, and shown the appropriate identification documents, they now had fifteen days to wait until their partnership could be made official.

In the meantime, Arthur had endured seven full days without his junior conservator, with the exception of that one night he had climbed through the kitchen window in Belgrave Square. His evenings had been occupied by family and business matters, none of which involved Merlin, and he was beginning to feel quite frustrated with this state of affairs, and with what Dinadan had referred to as his "enforced celibacy." He had rented a car for the duration of their stay in London, but had not had the opportunity to use it, and was looking forward to getting out of the city with Merlin, for their visit to Bath and his relative-by-marriage, Pelles Fisher-King.

"We're driving to Bath tomorrow," he reminded Merlin, who was ambling along next to him, a singularly absent-minded look in his eyes. "And old Pell will show us this manuscript he's been referring to in his emails. Very secretive fellow, old Pell. Won't tell me exactly what this is all about."

"Mmm," mumbled his companion. "It'll be nice to see Bath again. Haven't been there since university. I like all that nice Georgian architecture and pseudo-Roman statuary. And I can just imagine those hordes of eighteenth-century aristos going there to take the waters."

"Right," said Arthur wryly.

"Awful-tasting stuff," Merlin continued, wrinkling his nose.

"Father used to have a house there," Arthur said. "He's quite fond of the place."**

"Oh yay," replied Merlin without enthusiasm, but when Arthur called for him the next morning, he was waiting cheerfully at the front door of Gwaine's brother's house, a camera slung over one shoulder. To Arthur's relief, he had refrained from donning one of his vintage tees or hoodies, and was wearing a pair of new jeans with one of the shirts Arthur had purchased for him at Barney's before leaving New York.

As Arthur would be doing all the driving ("Some day you really must get your license, _Mer_lin!"), Merlin was given charge of the map, and strict instructions to pay careful attention to it. The drive was scenic enough to please both of them, even though foliage was still scanty on the rolling hills, and branches of most of the trees separating one field from another were still rather bare. When Merlin finished his account of the conservation monographs and condition reports he had been juggling all week—in what Arthur said must have been the longest run-on sentence in history—it was Arthur's turn to describe his various, and extremely tedious, business meetings.

"I've been tidying Gwaine's brother's house in my spare time," Merlin said modestly. "Scrubbing floors and polishing furniture like one of your father's household servants."

"I don't wonder that Gwaine invited you to stay at his brothers', then," Arthur said. "He's getting a free house cleaning out of all this."

"It's exhausting," replied Merlin, who was trying to photograph local scenery through the car window. "I sleep like a top every night. Do you?"

"No," growled Arthur, glaring at the road. "I do not. It's your bloody fault I can't sleep, sometimes, unless I…" His voice trailed off and he cleared his throat self-consciously.

Merlin chuckled and his eyes went to Arthur's hand, where it gripped the gear shaft. Arthur followed his glance and scowled.

"Stop looking so bloody smug, _Mer_lin," he said tersely, and Merlin obligingly composed his features into an expression of polite interest. Arthur couldn't help it; he burst out laughing at the sight, and nudged Merlin with his elbow. Merlin nudged back.

Perhaps half an hour outside of Bath, Arthur pulled the car to the side of the road and expressed the desire to stretch his legs. They walked several paces into a nearby field and leaned against a stone wall, their eyes taking in the distant spaces just beginning to turn green. Turning his head, Arthur looked at Merlin's wind-strewn dark hair and the crisp lines of his profile (so _beautiful!_), and pushed away the stirrings of desire, because…really, he was not going to have sex with his junior conservator _in the car_.

Merlin's deep blue eyes were searching the far horizon with a kind of dreamy appreciation. He was paying no attention to his Assistant Director, and Arthur continued to stare at him, realizing that the past week's frustration was beginning to take its toll.

"What _are_ you thinking about, _Mer_lin?" he snapped, taking refuge in a state of total exasperation.

"Destiny," said Merlin simply, abandoning his reverie with a little grimace.

"Oh really?" Arthur replied in his most sarcastic voice, hands on his hips. "And which destiny are you pondering, yours or mine?"

"Destiny St. Duvalier," Merlin said matter-of-factly, but Arthur could see the corner of his mouth trembling with the effort not to laugh. "She was an American girl from New Orleans, taking a year of study abroad…I met her my first year at university. She had a thing about doing it in wide open spaces, like this field."

Arthur frowned. Now that one mentioned it, the field did look rather inviting. If only it were warmer, and the grass was thicker…_what in bloody hell was he thinking_? Merlin turned his head and smiled, the breeze playing with the ends of his black hair and bringing a touch of color to his thin cheeks.

Arthur groaned. "I had no idea you were such a player in your student days, _Mer_lin."

"Who, me?" replied Merlin, startled. "You're joking. I was never a player. In fact, I almost never had time for sex with _anybody_. Even when Freya and I were going out, we rarely had any privacy, except on weekends."

"Hmmph," said Arthur, gritting his teeth and tearing his eyes away from the field.

"The back seats of cars are very practical, though," his young conservator mused, his eyes sliding in the direction of the rented vehicle. Arthur shivered, and then pulled his jacket closed, so that Merlin would think it was from the wind.

"Look, if you don't behave yourself," he said sternly, "I'll take you to the Pump Room for tea, and make you drink some of that disgusting-tasting water."

"The _Pump Room_," said Merlin, snorting with laughter.

"Shut _up_!" admonished Arthur, wishing they had an hour to spare and a handy roadside inn. "Get back in the car, there's a good _senior_ conservator."

"What!" said Merlin, jolted out of his whimsical frame of mind. "What did you, erm, say?"

"Oh, nothing," replied Arthur, fastening his seat belt. "Just look at the map, will you? We'll be late."

* * *

**** I think Anthony Head lives in Bath for part of the year.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: In the Realm of the Fisher-King**

Arthur navigated the rented car neatly along the steep streets of Bath, pointing out famous sites along the way, as Merlin sat quietly with a look of resigned patience on his face.

"I've seen these before, Pendragon," he finally said. "Stop making me feel like a tourist."

"You _are_ a tourist," his Assistant Director replied sedately. "We're not residents. We've only visited in the past. Even though my father lived here, I never did. That makes us tourists."

"Ladies and gentlemen, to your right we see the Royal Crescent," said Merlin in a high-pitched monotone, affecting the clipped accent of a television news broadcaster or upscale tour guide. Arthur thwacked him across the head with the folded up map.

"Morgana sent me an email this morning," Merlin said, ducking to avoid a second blow. "Two emails, in fact. She said to get good photographs, and to take them ourselves if Mr Fisher-King hasn't got any. D'you suppose the Institute can actually afford to buy whatever this thing is he's offering?"

"I don't know, really," Arthur replied, scanning the street for parking opportunities. "The purchase fund's been replenished since last year…all the same, it depends on how good the manuscript is, and of course the price. Oh…look at the sky."

"It looks as though we're getting a rainstorm," Merlin commented, peering out of the window at the thunderheads building up in the distance.

"Yes, well," muttered Arthur, thinking of lightning, flooding, slippery roads, and a good reason not to drive back to London the same day. A very good reason, in fact, to take a nice little hotel room in Bath and enjoy a one-night vacation from the growing horde of relatives descending upon the London house.

He stopped the car opposite the neat, modest façade of Pelles Fisher-King's establishment, slid into a parking space, and led Merlin to the door, painted a Mediterranean blue, with a small bronze plaque bearing the owner's name and the words "By Appointment Only" engraved into the surface. Arthur rang the bell and they were admitted almost at once by a well-dressed, red-haired young woman who guided them courteously into what looked like a cross between an office and a private library.

"I'm Branwen Case, Mr Fisher-King's assistant. He's just in the storage room, down the hall." The young woman indicated one of several doorways. "Won't you sit down? He shouldn't be a moment."

"If Mordred were here, he'd expect you to bolt," Arthur whispered, indicating Branwen's auburn locks. "Ginger people, you remember?" He turned and addressed Miss Case in a normal tone of voice. "I'm Arthur Pendragon, Mr Fisher-King's—"

"Oh yes, Mr Pendragon…of course! Mr Fisher-King's expecting you," she said instantly, giving both visitors a rapid, assessing glance that was not devoid of appreciation. "I know he won't mind if I take you directly to his workroom." She then whisked them down a hallway into another, much larger chamber, where they seated themselves on a high-backed wooden bench that looked vaguely Elizabethan in date.

The sound of gently shuffling footsteps alerted them to someone's approach, and both Arthur and Merlin stood up as Pelles Fisher-King emerged from a dark doorway to their left, covered in dust and cobwebs and smiling genially.

"I've been rummaging about in one of the storage rooms," he said in explanation, brushing himself off with an apologetic look and coughing as a result. "I'm afraid I've let it get deplorably dusty, not to mention difficult to navigate. Arthur! It's been years. A pleasure to see you again."

Storage rooms of any kind at the Institute were kept antiseptically clean and well-ordered. Merlin could just imagine Gaius' look of horror.

"It's been three years, to be precise," said Arthur, smiling as he shook the art dealer's hand. "May I introduce – _atchoo!_ – Merlin Emrys?"

"Mr Fisher-King," said Merlin, extending his hand and feeling slightly stupid.

"Pelles, please," said Mr Fisher-King, shaking off the last of the dust. "Especially since, as I understand, you'll be joining the Pendragon clan before long. A pleasure, young man. Of course, I've heard about you from a number of people in the field. Very gifted, with excellent hands, according to curators at the National Gallery. Now, if you'll forgive my weakness, I really must sit down."

Merlin felt himself flush as he met the other man's friendly gaze. But he noticed that the elderly dealer was indeed limping, and that, when he settled himself in one of the upholstered chairs, a grimace of discomfort crossed his worn, gentle-looking face.

"An old injury," he explained when he saw Merlin looking. "And age doesn't improve matters."

He and Arthur conversed amiably for several minutes, and Merlin took the opportunity to examine the space in which they were seated. Mr Fisher-King's workroom was furnished with shelves, chairs, a light fitted with a UV filter, and a table covered with a layer of felt, with another layer of acid-free tissue on top of it. Various objects from various periods of history were scattered across the shelves; Merlin noticed an eighteenth-century snuff box and a Renaissance salt cellar. A number of the artifacts appeared to be Roman—not surprisingly, given that this was Bath—and included a short sword, or gladius, that Merlin guessed to be first century in date, and a rather large bronze trident that might have belonged to a statue of Neptune.

Mr Fisher-King vanished briefly into another storage space and then padded back into the room, holding a wooden box in both hands and wincing with every step. Merlin hastened to pull out a chair for him, and Arthur—after asking permission—took the box and set it in front of him on the table. Mr Fisher-King reached out with slightly shaking hands and opened it.

"Well, my boy," he said to Arthur, but he turned his eyes on Merlin with another of his gentle smiles. "This is why you were brought here."

It was a book, its covers still a deep purple, and the parchment of its pages a creamy off-white. Once past the frontispiece painting, an exquisite, richly colored image of lords and ladies in a garden, there were pages of text with border decorations and decorated capital letters, as well as large miniatures and full-page illustrations.

"Remarkable," breathed Arthur, looking suddenly boyish with astonishment. "It looks so close to the work of the Limbourg Brothers."

"It does remind me of the Très Riches Heures of Jean de Berry," replied Mr Fisher-King, looking pleased. "And it's close in date. But this is the scene I've been meaning to show you…"

He reverently turned the pages until he reached the illustration he wanted, and stood back. Arthur looked down and gave an involuntary start; he could feel Merlin's sudden stillness beside him. The image was surprisingly familiar: three noblewomen flanked on one side by two noblemen, on the other side by an unhelmeted knight in armor, to whose right stood a slim, dark-haired male figure in simple, yet costly-looking garb.

There was no mistaking it—it was the composition that graced the fifteenth-century Courtiers' Tapestry at the Pendragon Institute, as well as the twelfth-century Sicilian mosaic the Institute was planning to borrow. But in this manuscript, the figures stood against a background of lush countryside, with a graceful, many-turreted castle in the distance. And—even more interestingly—the helmetless male figure in armor wore a narrow gold circlet about his brow, a detail that appeared in neither the tapestry nor the mosaic.

Beneath his feet, in tiny, almost invisible letters, were the words _Artorius rex_, inscribed in gold. There was a similar inscription beneath the fragile, dark-haired male, but the first word was partially rubbed out, so that one could only make out the letter _M_, followed by a blur, followed by the name _Ambrosius_.

"Oh my god," Merlin blurted out, and then covered his mouth with a shaking hand.

"I have kept it safe these years, waiting for the right person to claim it," said Mr Fisher-King in a serious voice, but Merlin could see that his eyes were twinkling.

"You mean waiting for the right person to buy it," said Arthur wryly. "I don't know that our purchase fund could afford…" But his eyes were wide with amazement and admiration. "Where do you suppose it was made? Fifteenth century, it looks, and…"

"If it's by the Limbourg brothers, there's a good chance it was made in France, possibly Burgundy," Merlin said solemnly, with only the faintest touch of smugness, and was rewarded by another kindly smile from Mr Fisher-King, who had sat down again.

"Well, young man," murmured Pelles Fisher-King, patting Merlin on the shoulder. "I've heard that you have magic in your fingers, but it seems you have excellent eyes as well."

"I think you had better let us know what price you're asking, Pell," Arthur said ruefully, pushing his hair back from his brow. "Father will be expecting a report."

Mr Fisher-King named a suitably impressive sum, and Arthur sighed.

"You haven't shown this to anybody else, have you, Pell?"

"No, no," said Mr Fisher-King in a shocked voice. "I told you I wanted to give you first chance at refusal. You can discuss this with your father. After all, I've seen photographs of your tapestry…the one that odd fellow, Cornelius Sigan, gave to the Institute. And now I hear there's another 'matching' image, a mosaic in Palermo, that you're planning to borrow? I've shown this to no one, but you do know how word gets round."

"I'll ring you as soon as I've spoken to Father. And you'll be coming to London for the…the…our civil union, won't you?" Arthur managed to say. It had taken an effort to actually speak those words aloud, but he saw a little quirk of a smile on Merlin's face, and suddenly felt as heroic as if he'd slain a fire-breathing dragon.

"Naturally, I wouldn't miss it," replied Mr Fisher-King, rising to his feet with difficulty. Merlin slipped a hand beneath his elbow, and the elderly dealer gave him a grateful look. "I quite look forward to it. If you will pardon an old man for saying so, you're quite a striking pair, you know. You should have a joint portrait done."

Merlin very nearly sniggered at the thought of himself and Arthur posing for hours, for a formal portrait painting.

After some pleasant chat between Mr Fisher-King and Arthur, most of which was Arthur recounting the latest goings on at the Institute, including upcoming exhibitions, loans, and the peculiar problems with the faulty alarm system ("It was very mysterious, and driving all of us mad for weeks!"), the dealer walked them to the door himself, and promised to be in London for their upcoming civil union. He then recommended a restaurant, a short distance from his shop, that was located in the ground floor of a small, exclusive hotel.

"That was incredible," Merlin said, once he and Arthur were in the car. A clap of thunder interrupted his next words, and a heavy rain began falling almost at once. "Do you think Uther will consider purchasing it, or is the price simply too high?" He bent towards Arthur within the narrow confines of the car, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

For Arthur, still dazzled by the magnificence of Pelles Fisher-King's book, it was a moment of sensory overload. The brilliant colors and gold leaf of the pages still danced before his eyes, and now here was his junior conservator, leaning close to speak to him over the pounding of the rain, his hair standing out from his head like an ebony aureole from the humidity, blue eyes glowing dark, like lapis, from the stormy grey of the sky, lips parted slightly. It was almost too much to take, and Arthur swallowed hard, thinking about Mr Fisher-King's hotel recommendation.

"I'm starving," said Merlin, who had fished what looked like an energy bar out of the pocket of his camera bag and was now beginning to munch it half-heartedly. "What happened to tea at the, erm, _Pump Room_?"

"Be quiet, unless you want me to ravish you on the spot," replied Arthur desperately, grabbing onto the nearest inanimate object, which happened to be his old guidebook to Bath and the surrounding area. "Don't even use that word. And we can get something to eat at that hotel old Pell was telling us about; look, the guidebook says the little restaurant on the ground floor is excellent."

"Is that so," said Merlin in a skeptical voice. "Don't tell me you're dragging me into a hotel with only food in mind."

"Well, look at this rain, you clot!" shouted Arthur, who was now feeling at the end of his tether. "I'm not driving back to London in this. And I don't know when it's going to let up. Better to take a room and drive back in the morning."

Rain was pelting down in torrents by the time they located the hotel, and they were drenched by the time they made it from the car to the front desk. The desk clerk raised an eyebrow at the two young men with no luggage, who were dripping water all over the tiled floor, but Arthur's credit card—his business expenses card, emblazoned with the name of the Pendragon Institute—was more than enough to secure them adjoining rooms with a view.

"What view?" muttered Merlin under his breath as they exited the lift and squelched their way down the hall, sodden with rain. "All we'll see is water."

"I have no interest whatsoever in the view," Arthur replied calmly, and watched color flood Merlin's high cheekbones as they approached the door to the first of their rooms.

The rooms had a connecting door, and Merlin had been right about the rain; all one could see beyond the tall windows was a sheet of silver-grey water, with the shapes of buildings dimly outlined behind it.

"Incredible piece of work, that manuscript," Arthur said as he flung his jacket in the general direction of the closet. "Remarkable that the same image—with stylistic differences, of course, should have appeared in Sicily so much earlier, in the late 1100s. And then, less than three centuries after that, in a tapestry made in Brussels for a French patron."

His shoes, socks, shirt, and trousers and boxers had been discarded on the floor before he finished speaking, and he walked to a window to examine photographs provided by Pelles Fisher-King.

"Are you trying to give the tourists a treat?" Merlin asked, peeling himself out of his own wet clothing and then trying to wring the water out of his hair.

"With this weather, they're not likely to look up," Arthur murmured, turning from the window. He raised his head, and then stood still, all but one part of his body paralyzed by the sight of his pale, skinny, beautiful junior conservator standing in the middle of the room. He looked delicate and vulnerable, and a few stray drops of water were glistening on his shoulders and in the hollow of his throat. Merlin had fetched a towel from the bathroom and was rubbing at his short mop of dark hair, but he was shivering a little, and Arthur crossed the floor and wrapped both arms around him, enfolding him in the heat of his own body.

"What's your father going to s…say," Merlin managed to stammer as the warmth of his Assistant Director began to ease the chill. "He'll want to talk to you about that book, and you were supposed to go with him and Elaine to that new French restaurant this evening."

"Let them take Kay," Arthur responded, completely unrepentant. "You and I can go there with Dinadan next week."

"Don't you think you should tell them you won't be back in London until tomorrow?" Merlin said feebly.

"Considering the rain, nobody's likely to be surprised," Arthur said. He pushed damp strands of black hair back from Merlin's brow, and then kissed him, hard, demanding, ferocious kisses that left Merlin dizzy and trembling. "I wonder which of us has the better bed."

"Does it matter?" asked Merlin, swaying and then clutching at Arthur's shoulders in order to remain standing. "One hotel bed is as good as another…_put me down_!" For all that he might be a half-inch taller than Arthur, something that didn't show when they stood side by side, he was so slight that his Assistant Director lifted him easily, took two strides to the king-sized bed, and deposited him there.

"_Mine!_" Arthur murmured adamantly as he flung himself down next to Merlin and then reached out with a possessive hand.

"Do you mean you're not even going to let your family know that the two of us, and the car, aren't lying in a ditch by the side of the road," Merlin managed to say as Arthur's hand made contact and then curled round him securely.

"I'll ring them later, and tell them about Pell's manuscript," Arthur said, generously allowing Merlin to roll on top. "It's only—mind those _knees_, _Mer_lin—for one night, much as I'd like to stay here for two."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: Merlin's Dream**

They were in a room, a vast audience chamber, filled with people—men and women—in velvets and silks and fine wool; the men wore surcoats and hose, the women were encased in gowns that fitted tight to the waist, and then spread out into long, full skirts, sleeves dangling almost to the floor. In the dream, Arthur wore a gold circlet around the gold of his head, a dusky red tunic, a thumb ring, and had a sword belted at his waist. He, Merlin, stood a little to the side in a simple tunic of homespun linen over some sort of trousers, and he could feel the power of magic surging through his body, his to command if Arthur willed it so.

"Give us leave," said the dream-Arthur to the assembled company, and the crowd melted away, leaving him alone with Merlin. And the dream-Merlin walked to him and put his arms round his neck and kissed him. The dream-Arthur looked at him sternly, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and then suddenly smiled—by the gods, there were his two pointed eyeteeth—and kissed him back, passionately…until a sudden weight on Merlin's chest threatened to choke the words of love he was on the verge of uttering aloud.

Merlin woke with a start, his senses still tingling, but it hadn't all been a dream; the real Arthur's hands were warm against his back, and he had rolled on top in his sleep—hence the sensation of pressure and weight.

"Ow…Arthur," Merlin whispered, trying to wriggle out from beneath his Assistant Director's torso. That splendid chest and those broad shoulders were all very well, but they were _squashing_ Merlin into the mattress. He poked at Arthur's bicep and heard a grumbling response.

"You won't believe what I just dreamed about," Merlin said, in an effort to get Arthur to wake up. "We were in some medieval castle or something, and you had this sword…"

"What castle?" Arthur growled, yawning hugely. "We're in a hotel in Bath, _Mer_lin."

"No really," Merlin insisted, squirming. "A castle. And you had some sort of crown, and this sword—"

"A sword?" said Arthur, smiling sleepily and quizzically as he shifted his weight. "Well, well. I know it's big, but it isn't quite _that_ big."

"No, a real sword, you clotpole," Merlin snapped. "You know. Like King Arthur's Excalibur."

"Mmmr," mumbled Arthur into Merlin's hair. "Need to rest, you idiot. I'm exhausted. My sword's exhausted. Isn't yours?" He groped drowsily with one hand.

"Arthur," hissed Merlin, batting ineffectually at Arthur's hand. "I've just had a thought about that book, that manuscript."

"Think away," Arthur said, yawning again and abandoning his stroking. He released Merlin below, pulling him instead against his shoulder. "Let's hope our clothes are dry by morning. Close your eyes, my little conservator, it's time for bye-byes."

"It's…what!" snorted Merlin with a touch of outrage, but Arthur had fallen back to sleep, one arm clutching Merlin to him, possessive even in slumber.

Merlin sighed gustily, and settled a pillow beneath his head. But before he drifted off, he made a mental note to himself to make certain to examine Pelles Fisher-King's fifteenth-century manuscript very carefully, if it ever came into their hands. Perhaps if he cleaned that blurred inscription beneath the dark-haired figure, he might find what he suspected was his own name.

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"Hmmm," said Uther, pacing the length of his wood-paneled study, as his son watched him from a vast, leather-covered armchair. "The Limbourg Brothers? Early fifteenth century? Surely not. How could such an object have escaped notice until now, if it's as you think it is. You must be mistaken."

"I didn't say it was the Limbourg Brothers themselves, exactly," Arthur replied, as slowly and patiently as if he was talking to a child. "But almost certainly their workshop, their studio, one of their followers, perhaps. Merlin thought so as well."

"Ah. Merlin. Well…" Uther's voice died away as he bit absently at one of his knuckles. "If—and I said _if_—it is a genuine article, the Pendragon Institute would be foolish not to acquire it. As for the price, well, perhaps something could be managed. I rather think Pelles wouldn't object to payment in installments over an eighteen-month period."

"Right," said Arthur, who was surreptitiously going over his father's employee files, reviewing the difference in salary between the senior and junior conservator positions.

"Pelles says he's coming to London for…for your…" Uther continued, frowning a little. "I'll ask him to bring the manuscript with him; he can leave it with us for a bit, so we can examine it. Our security's perfectly adequate here."

"Right," said Arthur again, thinking of the broken window latch in the kitchen, but resolved not to tell Uther about it.

"Yes, well, uh, when he comes to London for your—"

"Our civil union, yes," Arthur said adamantly, thinking to himself that Merlin would be proud of him. Or at least, that Merlin _should _be proud of him. And that if Merlin _wasn't_ proud of him, he would see to Merlin's punishment himself, and very vigorously.

"Er, um, yes," said Uther, turning a little red.

"I've been meaning to say this before, but…" Arthur murmured, closing his teeth for a moment on his lower lip but looking his father straight in the eyes. "If you're…uncomfortable with this civil union business, I would understand if you chose not to attend. You shouldn't feel…" He searched for the right word, feeling sad and sorry and irritated at the same time. "You shouldn't feel _obligated_ to be there."

Uther ceased his pacing and rested both hands on the polished surface of his massive desk. He stared at his son, and his expression almost mirrored what Arthur was feeling, a mixture of sadness and irritation.

"Arthur, you are _my son_, my first born child, and the child of…" he bit back the name he had been about to say aloud, and Arthur realized that he could count the times he had heard his father speak his mother's name on the fingers of one hand. "How can you even _think _I would not be there for…for your…union with, well, whomever."

"With _Merlin_," Arthur said steadily, not lowering his eyes.

"With Merlin, then," said Uther, lowering his.

"Right," Arthur replied, for the third time that evening.

Uther gnawed absently at his knuckle again. "Arthur. It's only that…I would like to be able to understand." He searched his son's face as he spoke, and, as on the night of his arrival, Arthur wondered whether he was looking for traces of his beautiful first wife in the features of the son who resembled her. "Granted your…he's a personable young man, intelligent, gifted, perhaps even brilliant, if I'm to believe everything I hear from people in the field. Clever, loyal, and, uh, I suppose attractive. But if he's as devoted to you as you say, he's not likely to leave you. So why…why the need for a legal bond? Why do you want to do this?"

With difficulty, Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Why did he want to do this? For so many reasons, Arthur thought, none of which he could put into words his father would accept. For all of those reasons…and also because he wanted to spend the rest of his life listening to the fluctuating tenor of that voice, watching those blue eyes that went almond-shaped when Merlin smiled, and because he knew he could count on Merlin to keep him in check whenever he became (as he knew he had a tendency to become) a bit too arrogant or overbearing.

And because, damn it all to bloody hell, he was in love, hopelessly so, with the wretched imbecile.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On his own again, in the comforting cocoon of Gwaine's brother's house, Merlin went over his notes, read, listened to music, and relaxed in the peace and quiet of this little home away from home. He also slept a great deal—the trip had been exhausting in more ways than one—and on the day after their return, switched on his laptop to check for messages.

There seemed to be quite a few emails from New York. His colleagues at the Institute were eager for news. The most cheerful email came from Gwen and Lance, who wanted to know what he and Arthur would like for a "wedding" present. Will's, on the other hand, was more of a reprimand:

_Merlin, you git, why haven't you emailed us. Or even texted one of us. Too busy rolling about with the golden princeling? Get your arse over to the computer and send us a message. Will._

Mordred's message was very much in character.

_Dear Merlin, Father is still fussing about my coming to London, but I don't care what he says. I am just as stubborn as he is, and when I'm his age, I think I'll be smarter. I'll bet he doesn't know a thing about mitochondrial DNA, which is what I've been studying on my own for fun. I told him Mum doesn't mind my coming, so there. I'm thinking of signing up for a course in advanced biochemistry at the university, if my school will let me. What sort of science classes should I take if I want to be a conservator? Would you and Arthur please buy me some choc bars and hide them, so Father won't take them away when Morgana and I arrive? She loves the ones with odd things in them, like fruit bits and nuts or red pepper or curry, but I've always liked Cadbury Milk best. Mordred_

Merlin's stomach did a mild somersault when he noticed the second to last email.

_How are you, mate? House still standing? Would you care to come out for a drink on Friday? Leave me a voice-mail and I'll ring you back. Gwaine._

Oh. Gwaine. Merlin didn't much want to think about Gwaine's motives for inviting him to have a drink. Although perhaps he was jumping to conclusions; Gwaine had been a good friend, got on well with Arthur and the rest of the Institute staff, and couldn't help being an incorrigible flirt. He flirted with everybody. Flirting, in the case of Gwaine, didn't have to mean anything. Right?

He sent a rather vague reply, saying that he wasn't certain about Friday, but would check with Arthur to see if he was free that night. By mentioning Arthur's name, he hoped to remind Gwaine that he was _absolutely not_ available for anything involving more than a handshake.

Why did he have the feeling that Gwaine was accustomed to getting what he wanted? Oh, right. Lance had told him so.

The final email was from Gaius, and Merlin suddenly wished that Gaius were actually there for him to talk to.

_Dear Merlin,_ _I look forward to a word from you, soon. Everybody is itching to know what's going on in London. I received an email from Arthur about Pelles F-K's manuscript, but the photo jpeg he sent is rather grainy. From the look of it, though, this is a truly remarkable and rare object, and Uther should be prevailed upon to snap it up, before somebody else—Cornelius Sigan, for example—buys it. Gaius._

Ugh. Cornelius Sigan. Merlin had put the lanky collector and airline magnate conveniently out of his mind. Bad enough that they would have to deal with him when it was time for his collection to go on loan to the Pendragon Institute for a special exhibition.

As tired as he was, Merlin realized that he needed to talk to somebody; life seemed so overwhelming at the moment, mostly in good ways, but he still felt the need to sort things out. His mother would be in London soon, and he looked forward to her company, but he needed reassurance _now_, from someone who knew the Pendragons well, and understood his situation. Sighing, he reached for the landline phone. It took a good thirty seconds for him to remember Gaius' number.

"Merlin, my boy." Gaius' voice sounded tinny and distant, but Merlin could hear the gladness in it. "I've been waiting to hear from you for ages? How are you?"

"Knackered," said Merlin honestly, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Can't think straight. But otherwise fine. No more jet lag. But we drove back from Bath yesterday, and now all I want to do is sleep."

"How's Arthur?"

"He's great. Navigating the perilous road to, erm, civil union, beset by nosy Pendragons on all sides."

"And Uther?" Gaius went on encouragingly.

"Uther's been a total pillock," Merlin replied, yawning. "But at least he acknowledges me. Shakes my hand, pounds me on the shoulder, and all that. Some of the cousins are nice. There's one called Kay who's a bit of a fuckwit—oh, sorry, Gaius—a bit of an idiot, but mostly they're fine."

"I thought you'd say as much," said Gaius tartly. "Kay's older than Arthur, and although he isn't a bad sort, he's always been full of himself. He was probably a bully at school. Arthur finally thrashed him when they were in their teens, and I doubt Kay's ever forgotten that. Amazingly enough, they get on fairly well."

"Dinadan's cool," Merlin said, tripping over a footstool as he made his way to the sofa.

"Yes, everybody likes him. Friendly, always been supportive of Arthur."

"How's Will?" Merlin asked with another gargantuan yawn. "And Gwen, Lance, Leon—oh, and of course Morgana."

"They're all well," Gaius said wryly. "Jabbering away about what they're going to wear to your union—that is, the ladies are. Lance just wants to be sure there's an after-party, with plenty to drink. As for Morgana, she's in fine fettle. She loves bossing everybody about, and whenever someone disagrees with her, she threatens to rip one of the crossbows out of the display case and put it to use. Now Merlin, do you realize what time it is over here? I was just on my way to bed."

"Yeah, but Gaius," interrupted Merlin, standing up again and peering into the kitchen. Where had he put the coffee maker, and could he actually manage to make a cup, one-handed, and not spill it? "Has Arthur told you about Pelles Fisher-King's manuscript?"

"He has," responded Gaius, suddenly serious. "Wake up, my boy! I _told_ you in my email, he sent me a photo."

"No, I mean really told you, properly. About what we think."

"That it might have come from the Limbourg Brothers' studio. By a follower, perhaps. You had better keep this quiet, Merlin. All of the museums will be clamoring to purchase it. Not to mention private collectors. I'm amazed old Pelles has shown it only to you and Arthur."

"He was very kind," Merlin mumbled. "Gaius, do you think this union thing is really going to happen without mishap?"

"_Mer_lin," rumbled Gaius, unconsciously imitating Arthur's pronunciation of his name. "Why should you think otherwise. Hasn't the Pendragon clan made it clear that they're perfectly happy to have you?"

"I don't know about _perfectly_ happy," replied Merlin, who was now truly longing for coffee. "Why should they be? Some middle-class, unglamorous nobody—and male to boot—from the wrong side of the tracks, as the Americans say."

"Merlin, don't be ridiculous," sighed his Department Head. Merlin could just picture him tugging on errant locks of his silvery hair. "Why should they care where you come from, in this day and age. You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No," said Merlin stoutly. "I've been nervous about it, but I want to do this. It's what Arthur wants. And, I, erm, I want to make him happy, because, well, so…"

"Stop babbling, Merlin, and pull yourself together," Gaius said flatly. "Forget about what Arthur wants for two seconds. It's what you want that we're talking about at the moment."

Merlin remembered the expression on Arthur's face when he had deposited Merlin on the front stoop of Gwaine's brother's house, following their return from Bath. He remembered Arthur's light touch on his wrist before he turned round and walked back to the hired car. The way he had looked, standing there, his fair hair hanging down over his brow, eyes bluer than the sky, the strong, beautiful lines of his face highlighted by the afternoon sun. More than anything, though, he remembered how they had bantered and joked and laughed during the drive, the snide but affectionate insults, the little half-smiles, and the tenderness he saw in Arthur's eyes when Arthur thought he wasn't looking.

"Gaius, for fu…for pity's sake," snapped Merlin. "I know what I want. Now—what do you suppose Morgana's doing about the bloody after-party?"

* * *

**Sorry I've been so long between updates. September's always hell, and I've also gotten into the _Eagle_ fandom (mostly in LJ).**


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Old Flames and New Dilemmas**

"Oh Merlin!" said Hunith Emrys, standing back with her hands on her son's shoulders. "Have you been _eating_?"

She looked reproachfully at Merlin's slender frame.

"Yes, Mum," replied Merlin honestly. "I've actually gained a little weight, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Sit down, darling," Hunith said firmly, gesturing towards the sofa. "And tell me how you've been. Oh, and how's Arthur? I'll be so happy to see him again. It was such great fun when the two of you came to Ealdor."

"Everything's been fine," said Merlin, collapsing onto cushions. "It's been great. Arthur and I drove to Bath last week. He's got meetings today, and Uther's roped him into a business dinner tonight, but I think he might be free tomorrow, and the day after."

It was an unbelievable relief to him to see his mother. Although he was used to spending long periods of time without seeing her at all—more than a year, in one case—he thought of her often, and lately had felt the need to sit and talk with her. It brightened his spirits to be with her, still attractive, brown-haired and bright-eyed, a pink color in her cheeks from her joy at the sight of him. Having accepted her much younger friend Isolde's invitation to stay with her in Chelsea until after the Emrys-Pendragon civil union, she had rung Merlin the moment she got settled, and he had dropped everything and flung himself into a cab.

The moment she opened the door, her hands still wet from washing up lunch dishes, Merlin had put his arms round her and buried his face in her shoulder.

Hunith had hugged him, patted his back, and stroked his unruly hair. She wasn't certain whether those were tears she felt against the neck of her dress, but she wasn't going to embarrass her grown son by asking him.

Merlin's eyes were faintly pink-rimmed when he finally drew away, but she pretended not to notice. Now, however, he seemed to have quite recovered, and was sitting contentedly on Isolde's sofa, smiling.

"Arthur's looking forward to seeing you again," he said, as Hunith set a mug of tea on the table in front of him. "I thought we could have lunch, or dinner, or something. You know, just the three of us."

"I should like that," his mother replied soothingly. "Now, what else have you been up to? Tell me about dear Gaius. And Will. And have you met with any old friends since your arrival?"

"No," said Merlin in response to the last question, feeling suddenly embarrassed that he hadn't given any of his university mates a thought since arriving. "But I got an email from Freya. She's driving to London tomorrow, and wants to meet for tea."

"Oh," said Hunith. "Freya's a dear girl. But I don't suppose Arthur will, you know, mind meeting her?"

"Oh no, I don't see why he would," Merlin lied heroically. "Here, I've brought you some cakes. They're from the Pendragons' favorite pastry shop, so they ought to be good. Nothing but the best for Uther Pendragon, of course."

As he busied himself untying the string wrapped round the pastry box, Hunith examined her son. Still lean and pale, dark hair neatly cut but standing on end nevertheless, the sweet, full-lipped smile and clarity of profile unchanged. Those _ears_, and the blue eyes beneath dark lashes. That peculiar combination of awkwardness and grace, sharp angles and beauty. Her masterpiece.

"There," exclaimed Merlin triumphantly, his conservator's fingers having made short work of the tight knots in the string. "No, I don't want one; they're all for you, and Iz, of course. Where is she, anyway?"

"Oh, Iz is prowling the shops," Hunith responded, grinning. "She's going to visit her family in Ireland next month, and she's already filled her closet with things she's bought for them."

"And her husband…what's his name, Mark?"

"He and his nephew Tristan drove to Cornwall yesterday, to see _Mark's_ family. Darling, it's been so entertaining, spending time with young folk, for a change. Life hasn't been this lively since you moved out."

"You must be joking," said Merlin severely, tapping his fingers on the coffee table. "Anybody with the stamina to go out with that Kanan fellow…and God knows that's something I can't understand. Oh…would you like to join us when we meet up with Freya? And shall we ring Arthur after we have lunch?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As far as Merlin was concerned, Arthur had absolutely no right to object to a visit from Freya. Especially as Uther had thrown a little dinner party the night before, for his old friend Godwyn, and Godwyn's daughter Elena. Why Merlin had been invited was difficult to fathom—perhaps Elaine had insisted that he not be left out? Arthur had never hidden the fact that he and Elena had gone out together for several months, only saying that this should not give Merlin any grounds for jealousy. (Merlin had smirked, because it was obvious that Arthur would be ecstatic if he _were_ jealous.) In any event, Merlin certainly hadn't felt anything resembling jealousy—it was Uther's attitude that had given him knots in his stomach.

Merlin had actually enjoyed talking with Elena, who was seated next to him at dinner. She was friendly and outgoing, and, like himself, could be amusingly clumsy at the oddest moments. She was also very pretty, in a robust, athletic sort of way, with blond hair and an enviable rosy complexion. Arthur sat across from her at the table, and the two of them laughed and joked prodigiously over old times, as Uther and Godwyn watched with indulgent smiles. Merlin could see that Arthur was looking at him out of the corner of his eye from time to time, perhaps hoping for a display of jealous pique, and that Uther was watching Arthur and Elena, perhaps hoping for a mutual renewal of interest. If the situation hadn't been so annoying, it would have been comical in the extreme.

"Ah, the good old days," Uther was heard to mutter to Godwyn, and Elena won Merlin's good opinion forever by covertly nudging his elbow with hers, and then turning towards him and rolling her eyes with exasperated amusement.

Elaine, as usual, had been charming to him, seeing to it that there were plenty of vegetable dishes for him to choose from, talking to him about the Institute, and recounting incidents from Arthur's childhood, during the moments when Arthur and Elena were engrossed in a two-way conversation. As neither Uther's son nor Godwyn's daughter seemed at all inclined to renew any romantic feelings they might have shared, however briefly, in the past, Merlin had had to repress a grin, watching Uther's expression become more and more dejected as the evening went on.

Uther had minded his manners, however, speaking cordially to his son's junior conservator and future partner, and putting a hand on his shoulder when the evening came to an end and Arthur offered to drive him home. The ride back to Gwaine's brother's, in the hired car, had been notable for Merlin's cheerful chatter (to prove to Arthur that he wasn't jealous), and Arthur's moody silence, occasioned by Uther's announcement that Arthur would be needed for a business dinner the following night.

"Elena quite likes you," he had finally murmured, shortly before they arrived at their destination. "She said she'd like to take us to that odd-sounding New Age pub or club everybody's been raving about, Friday at nine. What's it called…The Crystal Cave?"

"New Age pub?" said Merlin dubiously, wrinkling his brow. "What do they serve, martinis with prickly pear instead of olives? Neon green luminescent cocktails? Romulan ale?"

"Don't be ri_di_culous, _Mer_lin," Arthur replied absently. "It's the décor that's New Age. Liquor is liquor. You can stop by the house and get me at eight-thirty. This Crystal Whatsis is closer to me than to you."

Merlin remembered that Gwaine had asked him to have a drink on Friday. This might be perfect; he had an excuse to say no. Or he could simply invite Gwaine to join them, as there was safety in numbers and little chance of Gwaine getting any ideas.

When they stopped in front of Gwaine's brother's house, moments later, Arthur had walked him to the front stoop and waited until Merlin managed to get the door unlocked. Before returning to the car, however, he had seized Merlin by the lapels of his jacket and pressed his lips hard against his young conservator's warm and yielding mouth

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Events seemed to be coming thick and fast, now, and what Merlin and Arthur had referred to for so long as the "um" and the "thingy" was looming on the horizon like a stormcloud with a silver lining. Merlin said nothing to Arthur about his apprehensions, which had nothing to do with Arthur and everything to do with his formidable family, not to mention whatever horrific plans Morgana might be brewing with regards to an after-party. He had no qualms about being linked to Arthur for life—in fact, the knowledge that he would wake up every morning to the sound of "_Mer_lin, you idiot!" and have pillows, and insults, flung at him on a regular basis, was incredibly heartwarming. It was having to deal with the rest of the Pendragons that sometimes made him wonder what he had got himself into.

It was comforting to know that Elena liked and approved of him; she was indeed planning to join him and Arthur at The Crystal Cave, and in a moment of recklessness Merlin asked Gwaine to join them. What could be the harm? It would fulfill a social obligation, and Gwaine would have to behave himself in Arthur's presence.

And now it was delightful to arrange a meeting with Freya—somebody from Team Emrys as opposed to Team Pendragon—for tea, two days after the dinner with Godwyn and Elena. His mother would be joining them, and Arthur had grimly agreed to come, saying that he would be happy to see Hunith again (not a word about Freya, but oh well). A telephone conversation revealed that Freya had hoped they could all congregate at the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens, the regular London meeting-place for herself and Merlin during the days of their university romance. But Merlin opted to meet at the little tea room and restaurant someone—was it Giaus?—had recommended to him long ago. He would have been happy to go along with Freya's suggestion, but had the feeling Arthur might grumble that a rendezvous at the Peter Pan statue was just too cutsy-poo for words.

Half an hour before they were all to descend upon the tea room, Merlin collected Hunith and hailed a cab to drive them there. To his surprise, Arthur was early, standing at the curb and looking frighteningly elegant, not to mention breathtakingly _gorgeous_, in a jacket and tie. He greeted Hunith warmly, and blushed when she hugged him and kissed his cheek.

"Arthur, you look splendid," Hunith said affectionately, looking from him to her son. "Don't you think so, Merlin?"

"Meh," replied Merlin, shrugging, and was rewarded by a swat to the back of his head when Hunith was looking the other way. Just then, someone rapped on the window glass from inside, and Merlin squinted through the glare to see Freya waving at him from a table.

The small tea room featured a warm and cozy interior, rather old-fashioned, with chintz curtains at the windows, armchairs, well-upholstered sofas, and small, round tables, as well as dark, wood-paneled walls that wouldn't have been out of place in a Jacobean manor house. Freya stood up as they all trooped in, hugged Merlin and Hunith, and then turned to Arthur.

"I thought that might be you, standing just outside, Mr Pendragon," she said, in a manner that was disarmingly frank. "But I was afraid to go outside and fetch you in, just in case I was wrong."

Although he wasn't going to admit it, Arthur had been steeling himself for this encounter all morning. This was Merlin's ex, with whom he had had the longest relationship of his young life, until Arthur. Here she was, lovely, doe-eyed, pale and dark-haired like Merlin, holding out her hand to him with a friendly smile.

"A pleasure," said Arthur, bowing his head courteously. "And it's Arthur." He took her hand and smiled in turn, but his eyes were on the arch of his junior conservator's full upper lip. He cursed himself for a total fool; he had long since acknowledged to himself that he was prone to jealousy where Merlin was concerned, and that there wasn't much he could do about it. Merlin and Freya had put their student romance behind them long ago and were good friends, platonic friends...but Arthur couldn't get the image of the two of them in bed out of his mind. This girl had seen Merlin's eyelids flutter over the blue of his eyes, known the touch of those pillowy lips, had felt the smooth, long line of his creamy-skinned back beneath her hands.

Arthur wished he could kick himself in the head.

"...and now she's finally managed to drag herself away from the Lake District and this incredibly fit fellow who's being taking up all her free time," Merlin was saying, cheeks flushed with laughter and with pleasure at seeing her. "Sorry, I've forgotten his name. Have you got a picture of him, Frey?"

"Tea, Arthur?" Hunith asked softly, brandishing a teapot and leaning towards Arthur in an attempt to distract him. "It's wonderful to see you. I'm so happy about your civil union, and that you decided to do it _here_. I understand they're working to legalise same-sex marriage in New York State, though. Milk and sugar?"

"The state legislature is working on it, and the governor is in favor of it," Arthur replied, extending his teacup and attempting to give Merlin's mother his full attention. "And yes, please, both."

"I thought you might like to have this, Arthur," Freya said, holding out a photograph. Arthur took it: it was an old snapshot of Merlin, no doubt taken during his university days. He was slender, but not as thin as he was now; his hair was a little longer, the contours of his face a little rounder, and he was grinning like a child being presented with a triple-layered birthday cake.

Across the table, the real-life, present-day Merlin was chuckling behind his hand.

Arthur's sense of fairness prevented him from being more than a little annoyed with Merlin's cheerfulness. After all, Merlin had put up with Uther's clumsy attempt to get himself and Elena back together, and had had to deal with the pressure of being inspected, so to speak, by a multitude of Pendragon relatives. Surely he deserved to have a good laugh with an ex-girlfriend, without his future partner tearing himself to bits over it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As promised, it was Merlin's turn to call for Arthur in Belgrave Square, shortly before half past eight on Friday evening. He rang the bell, stood fidgeting in front of Uther's imposing front door, and was relieved when it was Arthur who opened it.

"Father and Elaine have gone out," his Assistant Director said in explanation. "But they might come strolling back at any moment, so let's go. Did we agree on nine o'clock? That's what I told Elena, anyway."

"Yeah, that's what I told Gwaine," Merlin replied. They meandered along the street for several blocks, saying little, and then paused at a well-lit corner, looking about for cabs.

"Merlin," said Arthur in a curt, peremptory manner. "I've booked a room in a hotel for tomorrow."

Merlin's jaw dropped. "Wh-what?"

"I want some time alone with you," Arthur went on. He wasn't whinging—Pendragons didn't whinge—but he sounded perilously close to losing his cool. "We're past the halfway mark, but I don't think I can hold out until the signing. If I come to yours, I mean Gwaine's brother's, who knows whether Gwaine will pop in at some unexpected moment. The last thing I need is for him to catch me with my trousers down, so to speak. After all, he works for the Metropolitan Museum. And knowing Gwaine, he'd probably take a picture with his mobile phone."

"A hotel?" said Merlin, aghast. "For a night? Arthur, are you trying to make me feel like, erm, a rentboy or a prostitute?"

"I was thinking of the afternoon, actually," Arthur said, now sounding almost complacent. "And the night as well." His fingers traced the sharp lines of Merlin's cheekbones, and then the outline of his lips. "Don't be stupid; we stayed at a hotel in Bath, didn't we? Well, we'd better get to that pub with the silly name before Elena and Gwaine do—they don't know each other. Just give me a moment. I don't want to walk to the curb and hail a cab with this massive erection."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Crystal Cave was almost intimidatingly New Age, although it occurred to Merlin that many aspects of New Age were completely out of fashion with the current crop of young people. There was an enormous crystal suspended from the center of the ceiling, each wall was essentially a huge screen on which nature scenes—pounding surf, winter mountains, clouds, or a forest of trees—were continually changing, and only the rows of bottles behind the bar looked reassuringly solid. Looking about, Merlin noticed that virtually all of the clientele were young and attractive, and that there were quite as many women as men. It was really more like a club than a pub, with an open area for dancing, and music coming from an invisible sound system. Elena was gesturing at them from a shiny white table, and as they made their way over to her, Merlin spotted Gwaine at one end of the bar, happily chatting up one of the waitresses. Grinning, Merlin collared him and presented him to Elena.

Introductions accomplished, they all settled comfortably round the table, and Gwaine soon had them in stitches with wild tales about goings-on at the Metropolitan Museum and other cultural institutions in New York. Although he worked at the Met, it was obvious that he had gotten to know people at many of the city's museums. Unfortunately, it was almost too noisy for any kind of meaningful conversation, as some distinctly New Age-y music from the 1980s was blaring away with overtones of soulful saxophones and synthesizers. After their first round of drinks, Arthur and Elena got out their digital cameras and began surveying photographs of old and new friends, family, and Elena's five cats.

"I'm afraid I can't show you what's on mine," Gwaine said, smiling broadly. Elena gave him an assessing look, as Merlin rolled his eyes and Arthur muttered "Good lord!" under his breath.

After downing one lager and feeling the need to stretch his legs, Merlin got to his feet and made his way to the bar. He was perusing the rows of bottles, wondering if it was wise to have another drink, when Gwaine slid onto the stool next to his and pushed a shot glass in his direction.

"Grey Goose," he said simply, and Merlin—wanting to be polite—took it and brought it to his lips.

It was smooth and cold, and went down like water. Gwaine offered him another.

"Merlin!" he heard Arthur call from across the room, but he was beginning to feel the effects of one too many shots of vodka, and found himself sagging against the bar, laughing uproariously at Gwaine's stories. Then he suddenly realized that sobriety might have been the better choice, as Gwaine slung an arm round his shoulders.

Merlin must have flinched without realizing it, because Gwaine smiled at him and brought his lips close to Merlin's ear.

"It's all right, Merlin," he said quietly, his hot breath drifting across Merlin's cheek. "I'm not a villain. Nothing's ever going to happen unless you want it to."

Merlin stared at him, wide-eyed, before regaining his composure and casually shrugging off Gwaine's arm.

"You should go play your tricks on Elena, mate," he said, his voice only a little unsteady. "She'd probably love to go home with an interesting bloke like you."

"Interesting!" said Gwaine, pretending to look mournful. "Nobody wants to be called _interesting_, mate. That's the sort of consoling comment you make to somebody you really _do not_ fancy."

"Is there _anybody_ you don't fancy?" came Arthur's voice from behind them. They both wheeled around to find Arthur standing there with eyebrows raised, a lager in one hand, the other resting on his hip.

Merlin and Gwaine both started, but Gwaine recovered his poise with admirable speed.

"There isn't anybody in this room I'd throw out of bed, if that's what you mean," he said, grinning amiably. "Including yourself, Mr Arthur Pendragon. But you needn't worry, I'm not asking for trouble. And I'm obviously not your type, anyway."

Arthur looked slightly taken aback, and failed to hear Merlin's very loud sigh of relief. But he laughed, slapped Gwaine on the shoulder, and made room at the bar for Elena, who had suddenly materialized out of the crowd.

"The night's still young," Elena said, directing her words at Gwaine. She was taking in his thick waves of brown hair, his strong features and brooding brows, with an appreciative air. "Yet I heard you already talking about _beds_. Are you as exhausted as all that, then?"

"Never too exhausted for _you_," replied Gwaine, outrageously, and minutes later he was escorting a smiling Elena onto the dance floor. Arthur and Merlin exchanged glances and Arthur gave a wry grin.

"I think I did warn her," he murmured. "Not to take Gwaine too seriously. But I suppose Elena can take care of herself. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she could beat him in a fair fight."

"Not a chance," Merlin responded, grateful that Arthur hadn't overheard Gwaine's earlier words to him. "He's handy with his fists, as we saw in that pub in the East Village. Remember? Anyway, he knows Elena's a friend of yours…and I'm certain he doesn't want you for an enemy."


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: A House Filled to Bursting  
**

Uther Pendragon's white-fronted house in Belgravia had never been so crowded. It seemed to Arthur as though every time he emerged from his bedroom, he tripped over or ran into another Pendragon, or a Pendragon by marriage, or a very small half-Pendragon offspring toting a stuffed toy, riding a hobby horse, or clutching some electronic game. He began to envy Merlin his peaceful solitude in Agravaine's quiet little home, taking in the mail, reading, and working diligently away on his laptop.

"I suppose Mordred will have his old room back, but where's Morgana going to sleep?" he asked his stepmother. "When they get here. On the floor?"

Because of the crush of people, Kay and Dinadan were now sharing a guest room; Dinadan was so good-natured that he was willing to put up with his abrasive cousin. One small guest bedroom in the attic, that had once been a maid's room, was designated for Bedivere…who was still promising to put in an appearance. It had been beautifully renovated and furnished, but there was barely room to turn round between the window and the door. The young offspring of various Pendragons slept in cushy sleeping bags in the basement, which featured a long, spacious room with French doors leading to the garden at the back end, and smaller windows with crisp, white curtains in the front portion, which housed the kitchen.

"I think we should make Kay sleep in the basement with the children," Arthur muttered, over breakfast. "They're just about his speed, intellectually."

As Kay happened to be sitting across the table from him when he said this, it was not surprising that Elaine—sighing with frustration at the silliness of her menfolk—was forced to break up a food fight before the newly painted walls were plastered with egg yolks and jam.

"I can only be glad that the children are eating downstairs and weren't here to witness this infantile behavior," she said crisply, and the cousins eyed each other shamefacedly.

Naturally, this event reminded Arthur of how Kay, older and burlier, had bullied him, off and on, through the years of his early childhood, and of his eventual physical triumph over Kay when he was thirteen. How they had both ended up with bloody noses in spite of Arthur being the winner. And how Uncle Ector had hauled Kay away unceremoniously, after apologizing to his nephew, and Arthur had had to endure a session in his father's study, being yelled at for half an hour. (Well—Uther hadn't yelled, precisely; he rarely did, but he had spoken very_ loudly_ and in that ice-cold tone tone of voice everybody in the family dreaded.)

After apologizing to Elaine and mopping up the mess on the table with Kay's help, Arthur went upstairs to his room and threw a change of clothing and his shaving kit into an overnight bag. He had told his stepmother that he was spending the evening out and wouldn't be back until God knows when, but had said nothing to his father. Not that it was any business of Uther's, and Arthur was hardly a child. All the same, he felt an almost childlike anticipation about spending yet another night, "clandestinely," with Merlin in a place where they weren't likely to be disturbed.

"I'll meet you in front of the hotel at three," he told his junior conservator after ringing him from his mobile. "We can get a bite to eat in the restaurant…or tea at some point…or whatever. Just don't be late, idiot."

"Bloody prat," Merlin muttered down the phone, and Arthur laughed before ringing off.

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Merlin had been spending his spare time in what he felt were fruitful and constructive ways. He had already obtained permission to study some of the medieval and Renaissance manuscripts in the Harley Collection at the British Library, and was planning to devote the week before the civil union to this activity. He had organized the notes he had taken after the visit to Bath, on the subject of Pelles Fisher-King's amazing book. And he had gotten his morning suit out of its garment bag, and hung it up on the front of the wardrobe in his bedroom. It had been dry-cleaned before he and Arthur left for London, and all he needed to do was get rid of the travel creases. This particular day, after showering and shaving, he stared at the entire ensemble—single-button tailcoat, dove-grey waistcoat, trousers, white shirt with collar studs, and tie—from several different angles; it was a near match for Arthur's. It was also elegant, and suited him-and Arthur had suggested they wear their morning suits for the...damn it, the you-know-what.

"_Civil union_," said Merlin, out loud. "Come on, Merlin, you ass, just say it."

He also checked his emails, looking for the address of the hotel where Arthur had insisted on booking a room, and instructions on how to get there. He jotted these down, shoved the piece of paper in his pocket, and went in search of his mobile, just in case his mother had called, or Arthur had sent him a text. Checking missed calls and text messages, he was shocked to notice that there were several from _Gwaine_.

Having witnessed Elena's departure from The Crystal Cave with Gwaine in tow, the night before, this was about the last thing Merlin had expected. He opened the first text message with apprehension.

_Well, Merlin, last night was epic and amazing._

Ah. They had hit it off, after all. Merlin had the feeling that they hadn't remained vertical for long, after arriving at wherever it was they had gone. Unless, of course, they were the sort who enjoyed having sex standing up.

The second text read:

_I have you and Arthur to thank for introducing us._

That ought to make Arthur happy. Merlin considered forwarding the text to him, but in fiddling with the tiny keys, he accidentally erased it.

The third text said:

_Of course I still fancy YOU and probably will continue to do so._

Merlin groaned. The man was an uncontrollable…what word could he possibly use?

The fourth and final message was a bit longer.

_But you have nothing to worry about, mate. I'm happy to be your friend for life. Yours and Arthur's. I promise to behave, in that respect. At least, sort of._

A glance at Agravaine's venerable grandfather clock told Merlin that it was nearly half past two. He snapped his mobile shut and ran to collect his overnight bag and keys, hoping that Arthur wasn't expecting him to be punctual.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As it turned out, it was just as well that Arthur had _not _expected punctuality. Merlin promptly lost himself in a maze of streets, and had to be directed to their meeting place by no fewer than three people. The first of these was a teenaged girl, who giggled as she gave him directions. The last was a middle-aged gentleman, well-dressed, who walked him partway to his destination, and then turned back after giving him a slow, regretful look from head to foot, his eyes lingering in a way that made Merlin feel queasy.

Arthur spotted him across the street, hesitating at the corner, long-limbed and boyish in his narrow jeans, his short, dark fringe setting off the pallor of his brow. Once he had crossed the crowded thoroughfare, dodging a car that had run the light, Arthur confronted him with an entirely phony air of saintly patience.

"Late, as usual," he said, raising one eyebrow to an impressive height. (Virtually every member of staff at the Institute could do that, as a result of trying to imitate Gaius.) "I've read halfway through this newspaper, waiting for you. Did you get lost? I gave you the address and instructions."

Merlin promptly pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to him.

Arthur examined it. "Dish soap. Toothpaste. Bread. Mustard. Orange juice. _Mer_lin! This is your groceries list."

Merlin scrabbled in his other pocket and produced a second piece of paper.

Arthur took it, his lower lip trembling with suppressed laughter. "How can you read your own handwriting? Come on, then." He gestured towards the hotel and Merlin followed him through the lobby and into the lift.

"I'd better program Father's house phone into your mobile," he said as they walked down the hall to their room. "Just in case."

The room turned out to be a suite, spacious and comfortable, facing away from the street to ensure quiet.

"We'll only be here a night, why a suite?" Merlin asked, his own eyebrows raised at the thought of the bill.

"Oh, Albion Inc. has an arrangement with this place," Arthur replied loftily, dropping his overnight bag and newspaper at the foot of the bed and beginning to unfasten his jacket. "The board holds meetings here occasionally, so they let members and their families take rooms at a discount. Here, give me your mobile."

Merlin handed it over, opened his own overnight case, and took his shaving kit into the luxuriously appointed bathroom. He could hear rustling in the bedroom as Arthur undressed, and emerged to find him already ensconced in the enormous bed. He was, however, turned away from Merlin, reclining on his side as he perused his newspaper. Illuminated by the warm, soft light from the bedside lamp, he was golden and beautiful, and, to Merlin's surprise, unquestionably cross.

This seemed remarkably silly, as Arthur had practically turned himself inside out to get Merlin to come to the hotel in the first place, and had seemed perfectly fine five minutes ago.

Merlin dropped his clothes, slid into his side of the bed, and said cautiously, "Arthur?"

"Hmmm?" Arthur said gruffly, without turning his head. Merlin put out a tentative hand and placed it on the smooth skin of Arthur's back, feeling the tension of the muscles beneath it. There was the lightest dusting of pale, almost invisible gold freckles across his shoulders, and Merlin focused on this for a moment as he tried to think of something to say.

"Arthur, something's upsetting you," he murmured, finally deciding to go with the obvious.

"I am _not_ upset," replied Arthur, stiffly. "I'm thinking about old Pell's book."

There were actually times when Arthur was _almost_ as bad at lying as Merlin was. This was one of those times.

"And I was wondering," he continued, turning round and shooting Merlin a glance from beneath his dark gold lashes, "why there happen to be several amorous text messages from Gwaine on your mobile."

Merlin withdrew his hand and stared.

"Arthur," he said carefully, so as not to sound as angry as he felt. "Let me understand this. You've been _reading_ my phone messages?"

"Purely by accident," snapped Arthur in a feeble attempt to retain the moral high ground. "I was about to program the house phone number into your speed dial. And what do I accidentally see but 'Merlin, last night was epic and amazing.' Hmmm. And then, 'I still fancy you, and probably will continue to do so.' Exactly when did you receive these texts, may I ask?"

Merlin blew out his breath in an explosive puff of air, not knowing whether to burst out laughing or lose his temper entirely.

"Why don't you _accidentally_ look at the date on the text messages, you stupid git," he said, biting back the laughter that was threatening to win out over the anger. "He sent those this morning. There was one in between, thanking you and me for introducing him to Elena, but I erased it. He's talking about _last night_, you dollop-headed lummox, and you know bloody well he didn't spend it with _me_."

There was a pause, and Arthur said in a sulky voice, "Why did he say he fancies you, then?"

"Of course he fancies me," shouted Merlin, falling back onto his pillows with a grimace. "And no doubt he fancies _you_, and he told me he fancies Gwen, and he probably fancies Lance and Leon and Morgana into the bargain. He's a great guy, a cool bloke, but he's like Casanova on Viagra when it comes to his sex drive. I've never known anything like it."

"Just how much _do_ you know about it?" Arthur asked acidly, but Merlin sat up again and hit him over the head with a pillow, laughter finally bubbling out of him in little bursts. Arthur looked at him, bit his lip, and then blushed with mingled embarrassment and chagrin.

"Sorry," he finally mumbled. "That was…that is, I quite like Gwaine, he's…but I'm…"

"An idiot," Merlin announced, and it was Arthur's turn to hit him with a pillow.

Merlin held up one hand, still laughing in fits and starts, to prevent this from turning into a full-scale pillow fight.

"Before you pound me to a pulp with that bolster," he said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Could we, erm…could I just say something about this jealousy thing you have going?"

"I _was _planning on pounding you to a pulp," Arthur replied. "But not with a bolster, and not that kind of pounding. However…"

"It isn't that I'm not, erm, flattered," Merlin began, and then flushed even more deeply than Arthur. "But you've got to stop thinking that everybody and his brother want a piece of me."

"There are moments when it looks that way," said Arthur, frowning. "All right, I overreacted, and I'm sorry. But you have to admit, anyone reading those texts might jump to the same conclusion I did." He flopped down onto his back and bunched pillows behind his neck. Merlin rubbed the last of the dampness from his cheeks and lay down next to Arthur, leaning over him with one hand resting lightly on his chest.

"Arthur, for pity's sake. I've never been a player. I was never even much of a flirt. I've never cheated on anybody, and I'm not promiscuous. I've told you that I love you. You know me, I think you know the kind of person I am, but you're so ready and willing to believe…"

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said with difficulty, speaking so quietly that Merlin had to lean closer to hear him properly. "It isn't you, and you're right. It's me, and I've been acting the jealous fool. After all, I'm the one who used to play the field and sleep around—before you, of course—although I was honest with my lovers, and didn't cheat on anybody I was in a genuine relationship with. I suppose I'm afraid you might leave me. That you'll meet somebody else…somebody who isn't arrogant and saddled with a problematic family…and leave."

Well, that was the crux of the matter, of course, and Merlin knew it. Arthur rarely talked about his childhood, but he had said enough for Merlin to get a sense of what things had been like for him. A mother, beloved by everyone who knew her, who died when he was born. An emotionally unavailable father, who hid his affection for his son, and whose autocratic, distant demeanor seemed like rejection. Merlin remembered Arthur's story about Nanny "Pudding," kind and caring but rather businesslike, who had never mothered him much. There was his adulthood, in which he was surrounded by people who wanted him as a status symbol, for his wealth or connections or good looks, but never really tried to understand him. The only person who would have loved him for himself had left him before he could even know her. Merlin was no student of psychology, but he knew that fear of abandonment was not uncommon in cases like Arthur's. Even a sincere, gentle stepmother like Elaine (who had had her own little boy to nurture), and a deep, if difficult, bond with Morgana, weren't enough to reassure the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute.

"Oh, Arthur," Merlin murmured, wishing he could think of something eloquent to say. "You blinkered lunatic. If I could put up with you for this long without losing my sanity, surely I can manage to survive a lifetime of you. I'm not going to leave."

"Tell me why," Arthur ordered abruptly, and Merlin groaned and rolled his eyes. "I thought I just did."

"_Merlin_."

"Because you're rich and handsome, of course," Merlin snapped with a straight face. "Those are the only reasons why. Oh, wait—yeah, and because you've got a big co-"

Arthur clapped a hand over Merlin's mouth. "Be serious."

"I _was_ being serious," Merlin said patiently. "Before. But you wouldn't listen. It seems to be a Pendragon family failing. I remember telling you once: you must learn to listen as well as you fight."

They looked at each other, smiling faintly.

"Idiot," they said in unison, and that made them laugh until they were forced to clutch their sides in pain.

"That's better," said Arthur in a much less strained, more Arthur-ish voice. They had been rolling about, muffling their guffaws in the bedclothes, and now Merlin put his hands on Arthur's shoulders and rolled on top. Arthur let him.

"You're not still upset, are you?" asked the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute. "I mean, did that destroy the mood for you?"

"You're the one who was upset," Merlin replied, caught between exasperation and desire. "And it doesn't seem to have destroyed the mood for _you_. You're harder than advanced calculus."

"Well, _do_ something about it, then," growled Arthur, almost fretfully, and Merlin wound the fingers of one hand into his hair and kissed him. His other hand put his conservator's dexterity and skillful touch to good use, as he slid the length of his thin, sinuous self against the length of Arthur. This went on for some time, and Arthur, taut with pleasure, his head thrown back, lay still and let Merlin do what he pleased with him. However—as Merlin knew perfectly well—when it came to sex, complete passivity was foreign to Arthur's nature, and he eventually rolled over, reversing their positions, and nearly crushed his junior conservator in a formidable embrace.

"I think my ribs are still intact," Merlin mumbled much later. "And the rest of me seems to be more or less unbroken."

"That's good," Arthur said into his hair. "Who wants a broken conservator anyway? Oh—I forgot to tell you. Morgana's sent me an email. She wants to know if we're going to have one best man or two, and whether he or they are going to make a best man speech at the after party."

"Best…how am I supposed to think about that now?" Merlin said plaintively, yawning. "Need to sleep. What time is it, half past five? If we get up in two hours, we can have dinner here."

"Right," said Arthur, rubbing his eyes. "The food's excellent. That'll give us some energy. Then we can go back to bed. Budge up, Merlin, will you? I'm right on the edge of the mattress."

"When's breakfast?"

"They serve breakfast until ten," said Arthur, yawning in his turn. "So we'll have time for another go in the morning."

"I'm not missing breakfast," Merlin said as adamantly as he could in his semi-conscious state. "Not a chance. I'm not doing The Walk of Shame all the way back to Gwaine's brother's on an empty stomach."


	29. Chapter 29

_My apologies for not replying to everybody's comments since the last update. As we all know, September is often utter hell when it comes to scheduling, and October hasn't been much better. I love all of your comments/reviews, and thank you all very much! I'll try to do better next time. Oh, and couldn't resist using quotes from Series 1, and a couple from this year's Series 4._

* * *

**Chapter 29: Advice, Architecture, and Arrivals (Not Necessarily in That Order)**

"Look out!" said Merlin, practically throwing himself in front of his Assistant Director, pushing him back onto the curb as a car careened past them, its elderly driver shouting a series of surprisingly graphic and up-to-date expletives at them through the window.

"I had no idea you were so keen to die for me," Arthur murmured with a touch of mild sarcasm, pulling Merlin up onto the curb by his side.

"Trust me," replied his junior conservator, scowling. "I can hardly believe it myself."

Arthur chuckled and elbowed Merlin in the ribs, nearly knocking him back off the curb. Then his mobile beeped, and he fumbled in his jacket pocket for it.

"It's a text," he said, squinting at the screen in the sunlight, then reaching into his other pocket for his Ray Bans. "Oh God! It's from Morgana."

"So, what does she say?" Merlin asked, one eye on the traffic as they jogged across the street.

"She's at Heathrow, for pity's sake," Arthur said in astonishment. "She and Mordred. I thought they weren't coming until a day or two before. The, um, union."

"She must have missed you," said Merlin with an angelic smile of deliberate and breathtaking insincerity. "Her best-beloved stepbrother."

"Please, _Mer_lin," Arthur responded in long-suffering tones. "It's too early in the day to start in on me. I'm counting on you to try to keep things from becoming really outrageous. Morgana, Mordred, Kay, Father, half of our relations, and _me_, under the same roof. I can't imagine anything more conducive to violence. Perhaps we'll all murder each other within the week. Thank the gods for Dinadan. He's the only one of the lot without a raging ego. Oh, and myself, of course."

Merlin bent over with laughter, and Arthur swatted him lightly across the top of his head. "I take it you don't agree with me. _That__'__s_ very kind of you. Shall we have some lunch, then? Sandwiches? And I think I could use a lager at the very least."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They had woken shortly before eight that morning, all tangled together in the middle of the vast hotel bed, and hopelessly twisted up in the sheets. Arthur had made good on his suggestion of the night before, but he was gentle, taking what Merlin jokingly referred to as the "non-invasive" approach, wrapping one hand carefully and firmly round both of them at once, and then panting quietly into Merlin's ear as he pushed upward into his own grip. When they were done and Merlin flopped back on the pillows, feeling limp and practically weightless, arms flung out to the side and head thrown back, Arthur had propped himself up on one elbow, smiling, and said, "Breakfast?"

"I…I think I do need it," Merlin had croaked feebly. "But I don't think I can move. Room Service?"

For all that his voice sounded so faint, he was flushed and glowing, as if with brisk exercise in the out-of-doors, his eyes a brilliant blue beneath the darkness of his hair. (Arthur put his hand into the short, spiky layers, letting them slip through his fingers, for the sheer pleasure of the sensation.) The faint sheen of sweat down the length of his body lent a pearl-like quality to the paleness of his skin.

"Room Service, I think," Merlin had repeated, lowering long-lashed, ivory lids over the blue of those eyes.

"Right," said Arthur, tearing his own eyes away and reaching for the bedside telephone. "Eggs and sausages for me, I think. Plenty of toast. Coffee. I suppose you'll be requesting your usual meat-free meal? I'm ravenous!"

"I'm not surprised," Merlin had mumbled under his breath, and was rewarded with a warning look from his future legal whatever-it-was-called. Less than ten minutes later, discreet knocking and the muted sound of jangling cutlery told them that their breakfasts had been delivered. Arthur slid out of bed and was halfway to the door before remembering that he was naked; flinging a towel round his hips, he had retrieved the tray from the gawping, wide-eyed Room Service waiter and stalked back to the bed, where he discarded the towel and plonked the tray down in front of Merlin.

"That's done it," Merlin announced as Arthur, in his naked state, started in on his toast. "Now that you've given the waiter a show, half the hotel staff will be clamouring to deliver anything we happen to call down for. Aren't you going to put something on?"

"In case you're wondering," Arthur had said smoothly, "I'm perfectly capable of going for another round. But for your sake, as you're so calorie-deprived, I'm willing to stop for some nourishment."

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As it turned out, Morgana had only just left Heathrow with Mordred in tow, and was on Uther's doorstep in record time—whilst Arthur and Merlin were still munching their way through their luncheon sandwiches at a nearby pub.

"I'd…actually appreciate it if you'd stop at the house with me, and stay until dinner," Arthur said with uncharacteristic hesitancy. "I wouldn't mind a bit of moral support."

"Erm, that's fine," replied Merlin, hesitating also. He had no objection to seeing Morgana, with whom he shared certain views about the senior Pendragon, but he had no desire to put Uther into a sour frame of mind so soon before his official entry into the family. "Are you sure Elaine won't be upset…at having an additional mouth to feed this evening?"

"Oh, she'll simply tell Cook," said Arthur, waving his hand dismissively. "Let's go, before my fortitude deserts me altogether."

Merlin muttered something about this being very unlikely, but he fell into step beside Arthur and walked into the Belgravia home with his head held high, like a proud aristocrat on his way to the guillotine in revolutionary France. Fortunately, the crowded state of Uther's sitting room allowed him to keep his distance from his future…was _father-in-law_ even close to being the correct term? Morgana, elegantly dressed in black, hair twisted into a ballet knot at the back of her head, was chatting happily with her mother, Dinadan, and Kay, whilst Mordred, looking distinctly uncomfortable with this horde of Pendragons, stood silently by, keeping his distance from his imperious father and twisting one leg round the other like an unhappy flamingo. At the sight of Arthur and Merlin, he appeared to cheer up considerably, and made his way across the room to stand next to the Institute's junior conservator. Merlin spoke to him gently, and was able to make him smile, but after several minutes of conversation about the physics of chocolate manufacture, he seemed pleased to go off in the company of Elaine—no doubt to inspect his old room, and indulge in a choc bar along the way.

"Is Mordred alright?" Arthur asked under his breath. "He's looking a bit peaked, don't you think?"

"He's been very focused lately," Morgana went on. "Always tinkering about with electronics, or whatever. I never know quite what he's trying to construct."

"Perhaps he's setting up a Leon Detector near her front door," Arthur whispered, and Merlin bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"I heard that," snapped Morgana, flushing with annoyance. "Yes, and I know all about the Father Detector he made for the two of you when you were in London last. Well, Mordred gets on quite well with Leon, thanks very much, and has no reason to want to keep him out of the flat."

"Everybody likes Leon," Arthur said meaningfully. "Because he has the patience of a saint."

"I suppose you're implying," his stepsister said icily, "that any man who spends time with me requires the patience of a saint."

"Any man?" murmured Arthur, feigning shock. "Are you meaning to tell me that there's currently more than one?"

"More than…? Arthur! Of course there isn't!" Morgana hissed furiously. "How anybody in your position can even dare—"

"Oh please, Morgana, must you talk about _positions_?" said Arthur, rolling his eyes. "I'd really rather not hear about your…um, bedroom gymnastics, if you don't mind."

"Merlin!" shrieked Morgana, losing her composure altogether. "How can you put up with this sort of…with this…"

It was as plain as the nose on Pinocchio's face that this was going to turn into yet another Arthur versus Morgana rant-fest. As Uther's head, like that of a hunting dog, turned sharply in their direction, Merlin got to his feet and sidled diplomatically towards the door.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?" said Arthur, narrowing his eyes. "Where are you sneaking off to?"

"'I have to pee," replied Merlin with dignity, hoping that this would serve.

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"…so unless you want to come and watch me…"

"Why," muttered Arthur, only too keenly aware of Morgana's snarky grin, "would I want to watch you?"

Merlin mumbled something unintelligible and vanished through the door, as Morgana roared with laughter.

When he returned, more than ten minutes later, things appeared to have quieted down, and Arthur was sitting calmly on the sofa whilst Morgana rummaged through her carry-on bag for family gifts.

"Have you been peeing all this time?" Arthur asked, but Merlin ignored this and sat down at the other end of the sofa. In the silence that followed, both could hear Morgana doing her best to stifle snorts of derisive mirth.

"D'you remember that fake rat we scared her with once?" Arthur asked Merlin quietly. "That huge, lifelike one your friend sent you…remember?* Well, I've brought it with me. I'm sure we can find some way to put it to good use."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Not long after this, Elaine returned to the sitting room with a much more cheerful-looking Mordred, Kay took himself off, pleading a previous engagement, and tea arrived on a vast silver tray, complete with scones, raspberry jam, and clotted cream. As they all tucked in, led by Mordred—who solemnly announced that the only bad thing about life in New York was the difficulty in finding any decent clotted cream—Uther made the startling suggestion that Arthur buy a house in or not too far from London, where he ("and, uh, um, Merlin") could stay whenever they pleased.

"You do realize," Morgana said in her stepbrother's ear, "that he's trying to get you to come back to England more often."

"I don't think it's really necessary for me to have a house here," Arthur said aloud. "It would be a bit of a drain on my finances, and I—_we_—wouldn't spend all that much time in it anyway."

"Just a small place," Uther went on, as if he hadn't heard. "With the economy the way it is, I daresay you could snap something up at good value."

"Some nice little modern bungalow, you mean?" Dinadan asked, from across the room, and Uther winced.

"Oh no, Din," Morgana responded, smirking slightly. "Sir Uther has a horror of modern architecture. I'm certain he was thinking of a little stone house in the Cotswolds, or a brick-faced Edwardian thingy on the edge of the city, at the very least."

As this was the first time a member of the family had referred to Uther by his new title,** everybody blinked at the sound of it.

"Speaking of architecture," Uther continued, casting a stern look at his son and stepdaughter, "I've been talking with Gaius about the feasibility of building an annex onto the Institute's structure…perhaps to house the arms and armour in their own gallery."

"So I understand," Arthur said, but Uther hadn't finished with the subject.

"Gaius mentioned a few architects who've done museum additions in the past decade or so, but I believe I'd prefer to use somebody who can create an annex that looks as though it belongs to the same period as the original building."

"What's wrong with a simple, unpretentious modern addition?" Morgana asked with deceptive docility.

"I think it's imperative that the addition perpetuate the structural and stylistic integrity of the original old building," Uther went on, as though reading from a script. "We want to keep the architecture harmonious throughout."

"Is this a new interest of yours, Uncle Uther?" Dinadan asked in a respectful tone of voice.

"Or are you simply channeling Prince Charles?" said Arthur.

"Many of us tend to look askance at the current state of architecture," Uther said severely, ignoring his son's comment. "We feel that so much being constructed today is tastless and gaudy."

"Oh God, he's using _the __royal__ we_," Morgana said under her breath.

"There's quite a lot of very fine contemporary architecture," Dinadan said in a deferential manner, attempting to mediate. "I think what Renzo Piano did for the Morgan Museum and Library in New York is extremely handsome and understated."

"It's one of my favorite small museums," Morgana added. "I love the modern addition. It's not gaudy in the slightest. And no one can accuse _me_ of being lacking in taste."

Uther harrumphed portentously, but the younger Pendragons were saved from a lecture by the jangling of the telephone. Elaine went into the study to answer it.

"I'll be going for a little stroll, then," said Dinadan judiciously. It was clear that he wanted no part of a family argument about _architecture_, of all things. "Could use a bit of fresh air. Back in half an hour. I think the wife and kids are coming into the city today, and I don't want to miss them when they show up."

"Right," said Arthur, raising his head as if he had just remembered something. "Enid rang me yesterday, said she was coming here to speak to—"

"Arthur, darling," his stepmother called from the next room. "Your Cousin Bedivere's just rung up…he's at Heathrow. He's exhausted, poor thing. Would you be a dear and take the car, pick him up? Mordred and I can go with you."

"_More _Pendragons?" Merlin whispered, blanching, but nobody heard him, as Dinadan was taking his leave, and Uther and Morgana were still niggling at each other about building on an addition to the Institute.

"This won't take long," said Arthur, grinning at Merlin as he licked raspberry jam off his fingers. "So stop looking like you're about to be tied to the stake and incinerated."

"Listen to me," Merlin began, hardly cheered at the thought of being left more or less on his own with Uther. He was wondering whether _he_ should offer to accompany Elaine, but Arthur was already getting to his feet.

"You know me, _Mer_lin, I never listen to you," he said cheerfully, shoving back his chair. "Oh, as I was just saying to Dinadan. Enid rang me yesterday; she said she would stop in this afternoon. In fact, she should be here at any moment. She wants to have a chat with you."

"With _me_?" said Merlin fuzzily. "Enid? You don't mean Cornelius Sigan's trophy wife!"

"No, no, no, God forbid! She's not the only Enid in the world. Dinadan's wife, you clot; you met her at the dinner. She's in the city for the day—naturally, she'll be back again for the, uh, union—and she's brought the girls."

Merlin remembered the two little girls—blonde twins—who had twined themselves round his legs at the dinner party. They, and their parents, had been among the most welcoming members of the Pendragon family, and he could only hope that they were still of the same mind. He was reassured on that score when the doorbell sounded, Arthur answered it, and the twins pelted through and raced for Merlin, laughing buoyantly, and chattering like squirrels. Their mother followed at a more sedate pace, smiling and bearing a box of beautifully iced little cakes. There were hugs all round, and then Arthur excused himself, explaining that he and Elaine were off to fetch Bedivere at Heathrow. He vanished upstairs for several minutes, but returned with his jacket and keys to the hired car, whistling cheerfully.

Morgana then excused _herself_, claiming the need for a long, hot bath with lots of bubbles after her flight from New York, and went upstairs in her turn. As Arthur joined his stepmother and half brother at the front door, shrugged himself into his jacket, Enid and her children settled themselves on the sofa. They could all hear water running upstairs, and the sound of Morgana humming loudly and contentedly.

"I'm off," Arthur said, putting his head through the sitting room door. "Be back in less than an hour. Don't eat up all the pastries. Now girls, be nice to Uncle Merlin and I'll bring you a bucket of ice cream."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

To Merlin's immense relief, Uther retired to his study to go over some papers, after kissing Enid on the cheek and nodding vaguely in Merlin's direction.

"Dina…your husband's gone for a stroll," Merlin informed Enid as she turned to him with a smile, having sent the children down to the kitchen, to find a plate for the cakes. "He said he'd be back before dinner."

"That's splendid, Merlin, but I did come here to talk with you," was the gentle reply. "It was such a pleasure meeting you at that dinner, and I could see that you were being rather overwhelmed by Arthur's curious relations. I just wanted to reassure you that—appearances to the contrary—the family will be happy to have you once they get to know you. I know," she added, lowering her voice, "that Uther can be difficult, but he's that way with most people. It isn't just you. As for the cousins, we all think you're the best thing that's happened to Arthur, ever. We can tell how happy you make him, you see."

"You can?" said Merlin doubtfully. "That is…really? He acts the way he's always acted, except for—" Then he blushed, realizing that he was thinking aloud, but Enid laughed.

"I was petrified with fear when _I_ joined the family," she said brightly, patting his arm. "It takes a while, but you get used to them."

"You've been very kind," Merlin began, hoping that he would have time to visit with his mother again, before the remainder of Uther's clan descended upon London.

"Well, I'm not a Pendragon," Enid said firmly. "For which I am forever grateful. Although they're not all problematic. Look at Din. Bedivere's very sweet, and his sister Ragnell is lovely—you've met her husband, Pelles Fisher-King. They have a May-December marriage; Ragnell's only in her forties, but it's quite successful, and they're devoted to each other. Ragnell's away, something to do with her job, but Pelles is driving to London tomorrow, I think, and—"

A series of loud and horrified shrieks cut off Enid in mid sentence, and she and Merlin leapt to their feet in surprise. There was the sound of the upstairs bathroom door being flung violently open; footsteps echoed above, and Morgana, wrapped in a toweling robe, black hair in disarray and standing out from her head like Medusa's snakes, appeared on the stairs.

"Morgana! Are you hurt? What—" Enid began, but Morgana, face pale with rage, raised one tightly clenched fist. Dangling from her grip by its tail was a very large, very lifelike artificial rat, to which a mass of bubbles was still clinging.

"I don't suppose anybody would care to explain how this got into the tub?" she said wrathfully, her eyes going straight to the Institute's junior conservator. "Merlin, I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to murder your man the moment he walks through that front door."

* * *

**The rat first appeared in _Inside the Pendragon Institute_, Chapter 26.**

**The Dragon told the staff about Uther's knighthood in Chapter 7 of this fic.**


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter ****30: ****The ****Kids ****Are ****Alright**

Merlin did not particularly regret having agreed to stay at the Pendragon residence for dinner. There was a superb dish of ravioli stuffed with artichoke, in a light sauce that Elaine assured him contained no cream. Salads, crusty bread, and a very fine wine topped this off, and for pudding there was a dairy-free lemon soufflé. Then, everybody but Merlin descended upon a vast fruit and cream filled tart that was placed in the center of the table with as much care as if it contained the Crown Jewels rather than calories.

There was also a generous selection of Swiss chocolate-covered biscuits, for those who could eat them, and for several tense moments there appeared to be a race between Mordred and Kay to see who could consume more of them. Mordred won hands down, and Kay held his sides, repressing a belch, as he watched Uther's poker-faced younger son scarf down the very last one.

"How kind of the two of you to leave some for the rest of us," Dinadan said, smiling, but Kay—who must have had too much to drink even before they sat down to their meal—was decidedly put out.

"Some of us are simply too, _hic_, greedy," he muttered, glowering at the empty biscuit plate. "Hey! Isn't cocoa supposed to be addictive, and bad for children? _Coca_ beans, or whatever? It must be a plot by the Swiss, to, _hic_, take over the world."

"_Theobroma __cacao_," Mordred corrected him coolly, wiping crumbs from his chin with his linen napkin. "Not coca. And the cacao doesn't come from Switzerland. It's from Central America, and the beans were used as money there in ancient days."

"Well, excuuuse me," snorted Kay, turning brick red, but Merlin smiled at Mordred and nudged his shoulder in a comradely manner.

"He's quite a dedicated student," he said quietly, and Elaine flashed him a look of gratitude.

"Well, he's a Pendragon, isn't he," replied Kay, a trifle snidely. "You'd expect the kid to have brains in his head, eh?"

"You can see why he's gone through three wives in ten years," Arthur whispered in Merlin's ear.

"Poor manners, Arthur," said Kay, squinting at his younger cousin. "Not nice to whisper at table. Your Merlin may be a lovely lad, but save that nuzzling and canoodling for when you're alone together."

Uther frowned disapprovingly, Dinadan and Elaine pretended not to have heard, Merlin bit his lip, and Arthur's mouth tightened as his eyes turned to blue ice; however, it was Morgana who spoke up.

"No more wine for you, Kay," she said, raising her eyebrows with distaste. "And you're a fine one to talk about poor manners." Merlin peered across the table in her direction; she had not, contrary to her earlier warning, murdered Arthur when he returned from Heathrow with his cousin Bedivere, had made no mention of the rat, and was being surprisingly mild-mannered.

Bedivere Pendragon-Jones himself was a pleasant surprise to Merlin, who had been wary despite Enid's assurances that he was completely different from Uther, Kay, and a number of other family members. He had walked straight up to Merlin the moment he arrived, and shaken his hand warmly, introducing himself before Arthur could utter a word. He had a splendid head of ginger hair, and Mordred looked anxiously in Merlin's direction, as if he expected him to bolt from the room in a panic. Shortly after greeting his assorted relations, however, he had taken himself off to his room, claiming total exhaustion ("Air travel does it to me every time!"), and told the rest of the family to dine without him.

Merlin was happy to see that he and Arthur would likely have another ally in Bedivere, but when he thought about the Pendragon family in general, he still felt outnumbered and outgunned. Dealing with them was like having a single-handed food fight with an octopus. Thank the gods he would be seeing his mother and her friends the next day…it might restore his sense of equilibrium.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur drove Merlin back to Gwaine's brother's house after dinner. As Mordred had insisted on coming along for the ride, there was no opportunity for anything beyond saying goodnight at the front door—after Arthur joked about Mordred _still_ thinking that Merlin was afraid of ginger people. Once inside, Merlin made himself a cup of tea, rang Hunith—she didn't answer her phone, so he left a voicemail—and then sat down in front of the computer to check his emails, hoping his mother would ring him back before midnight.

He was into his third email—liberally laced with misspellings and swear words—from Will, when his mobile beeped, and he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get to it. Only it wasn't his mother, it was Gwaine, and he was _whispering_.

"Gwaine?" he murmured confusedly; why on earth was the man ringing him at this hour? "Are you at Elena's?"

"Elena's sleeping," Gwaine said. "I must have worn her out."

"You're even less modest than…" Merlin began. He stopped when he realized that he had been about to say, "less modest than Arthur," but fortunately Gwaine simply kept on talking.

"We went dancing at some club she likes, and then for drinks at some pub she likes, and then home for…well…"

"Cool," said Merlin, interrupting because he wasn't certain he wanted to hear the rest. "It's brilliant you two have hit it off so well."

"Couldn't be better," murmured Gwaine. "And I thought _I_ was demanding! Well, how are things between you and Arthur's family?"

"I just came from there," Merlin replied flatly. "Hordes of Pendragons round the dinner table. Cousins. Mordred. Morgana. Too much food. _Sir_ Uther presiding over everything. If I weren't so conscientious, I'd get roaring, fall-down drunk."

"Sounds barking," snorted Gwaine, and Merlin could almost see him tossing his impressive mane of wavy brown hair. "No reason to feel intimidated, though."

"Wouldn't you be?" Merlin blurted out before he could stop himself. "With Uther Pendragon as a semi father-in-law, and a horde of Pendragons watching and waiting for you to make some kind of social or professional misstep."

"Nah," replied Gwaine calmly, after less than a minute of thought. "Fuck 'em, man. You'll be spending at least half of your time in New York. You earn your own living, you're not dependent on the bloody Pendragons. You're marrying the son, not the father. As for the, uh, in-laws, you'd be having the same problems if you were marrying a girl from your home town…Ealdor, is it? In-laws are almost always a bit, oh, you know. It all comes down to how you feel about his lordship…I mean, about Arthur."

Merlin chuckled, but he realized that if Gwaine had been there, he might have hugged him (well, maybe not _hugged_ him) for his gruff reassurance and for saying exactly what Merlin had been wanting to hear. It was true; he knew few people who didn't harbor some degree of nervousness about their in-laws, and he was becoming the legal partner of Arthur, not the entire Pendragon clan.

"Well?" said Gwaine. "Just how _do_ you feel, Merlin?"

"At the Institute, he's my boss," replied Merlin lightly, because he had no real desire to discuss his innermost feelings with Gwaine, as grateful as he felt and as much as he liked him. "To a certain extent I have to take orders from him, but he…but outside of work, we, erm, get on really well."

It was Gwaine's turn to chuckle. "That's a good start, then, my friend," he said amiably. "Mind you, I'm sure Arthur's not always easy to deal with. But in addition to his other advantages, he's quite fit…so life with him probably does have its, ahem, compensations. Well, if you're ever in need of a little extracurricular entertainment, you have my number."

"Oh, shut up," said Merlin, grinning. "Do you never stop? If Elena could hear you!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Merlin," said Arthur's disembodied voice, as Merlin propped the telephone on the pillow next to his head. "I think you had better get over here. Today, if you can."

Merlin eyed the clock on the bedside table. It was barely ten minutes of eight. "Arthur. Have you had your breakfast?"

"Yes, of course I have, haven't you?" Arthur answered, sounding annoyed and amused at the same time. "Or did I just wake you?"

Merlin had been sound asleep three minutes earlier, but he was not going to give Arthur the satisfaction of hearing him admit to it. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_," his Assistant Director said, more than a little testily. "Just get here when you can, will you? Could you manage noon?"

Merlin scrubbed at his eyes and tried to organize his thoughts. He had gotten into bed at half past eleven, following his conversation with Gwaine, but had been unable to fall asleep until well after midnight. He had been hoping to spend the day in quiet relaxation before setting out for Chelsea to meet his mother and her friends for dinner. But Arthur sounded insistent, and he supposed he could oblige him. Hunith wasn't expecting him until six.

"Right," he said, yawning and sitting up. "I'll be there as soon as I can." Perhaps Arthur wanted to discuss Pelles Fisher-King's manuscript with his father, and needed his assistance. Setting the phone down, he climbed out of bed and went to look for something to wear. This time he wasn't going to worry about Uther's opinion of the way he dressed. Before turning on the shower, he unearthed a pair of jeans and deliberately selected one of his oldest band tee shirts. _Take __that, __Uther __Pendragon!_ he thought with grim satisfaction as he stepped beneath the spray of hot water.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin was fidgeting on the front steps of the Belgravia house, leafing through notes he had taken on the subject of the Fisher-King manuscript, when the door was opened by none other than Uther…_Sir_ Uther Pendragon. After narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips at the sight of Merlin's ancient tee shirt, with its faded image of The Who, he greeted his son's young conservator pleasantly enough, and even patted him on the shoulder before ushering him into the sitting room, where Arthur was waiting.

Both Arthur—stunning in what Merlin recognized as his Prada jacket over a shirt graced with heavy, solid gold cufflinks—and Morgana were standing by the fireplace, staring at the coffee table. This was piled high with what Merlin realized were presents, most of them wrapped in white or silvery paper, with white ribbons and little notes tucked under the bows. Morgana was smiling like the legendary canary-swallowing cat, and Arthur's face was a careful blank. Uther, mumbling something about board meeting notes, disappeared into his study, and Merlin approached the mountain of gifts with a questioning look at his Assistant Director.

"Don't tell me they're…" he began, staring at the glittering pile with suspicion, but it was Morgana who answered him.

"I think you could call them 'wedding' presents, Merlin," she said, eyes sparkling with glee. "Or _union_ presents…whatever you like. They've been arriving at the Institute over the past two weeks, so I had them sent over."

"Why in bloody hell didn't you just leave them in New York," Arthur began, but his stepsister interrupted him.

"Don't be silly, Arthur," she said sweetly, shooting a sharp glance at him from beneath her lashes. "Why spoil the fun of seeing your friends, colleagues, and family ooh and ah and coo as you unwrap them? And although I doubt any of these boxes contain lacy, see-through knickers,"—Arthur stared daggers at her—"or similar wedding-type gifts, I'm sure there will be enough stylish luxury items to keep everybody entertained."

Reaching out with one hand, she wrapped her crimson-tipped fingers round one of the smaller boxes and shook it. There was a faint rattling from within.

"What on earth?" she mused, weighing the box in her palm. "This has moving parts, anyway. Sex toys?"

"Morgana, will you get out!" roared Arthur, grabbing the box and slamming it back onto the table.

"Sorry," she responded loudly, as she headed for the door. "It sounded like _something_ that requires _batteries_."

For a moment it looked as though Arthur was going to hurl a sofa cushion at his stepsister's retreating back, but he paused, and breathed deeply until he regained his calm demeanor.

"What have you got there?" he asked, finally, gesturing at the papers in Merlin's hand.

"My n…notes about the Fisher-King manuscript," said Merlin, handing them over and then looking from the pile of presents to Arthur and back again. "Does Morgana really expect us to open these in front of everybody, after the signing, or the party, or whatever?"

Arthur shrugged histrionically, before turning his attention to the notes.

"I refuse to open gifts at the after-party, like some blushing bride," grumbled Merlin, eying the be-ribboned parcels dubiously. "Let's open them now."

"Leave them, Merlin, at least until we've discussed what to do with them," Arthur replied distractedly, running his eyes over the pages of Merlin's notes.

"Fine; you be the blushing bride then," said Merlin, and Arthur looked indignant but said nothing. So Merlin—working fast, before his Assistant Director could object—seized the gift on the top of the pile and plucked off the accompanying card.

"Do you ever do as you're told?" sighed Arthur, but Merlin was scrutinizing the writing on the envelope.

"It's from The Dragon…I mean John," he announced as he tore off the silver ribbon and pristine white wrapping paper, opened the box he found within it...and the box inside of that...and the box inside of _that._

"_Ridculous,_" he said under his breath. "What a waste of paper and cardboard. This is the third box, and it's tiny."

"So The Dragon was trying to make his present look bigger than it is," said Arthur in a bored voice, but Merlin was fiercely worrying at the tape on the innermost box, finally wrenching it open and then digging amongst wads of soft tissue paper.

"You're as tenacious as a terrier," Arthur said, amused in spite of himself, but his eyes widened a little when Merlin uncovered the contents, and held it out in the palm of his hand.

It was a gold coin, Roman from what Arthur could tell, perhaps dating to the late fourth century, in superb condition. The profile of an emperor graced one side, whilst the other depicted two male figures, seated side by side.

"It's a gold _solidus_," Merlin exclaimed in astonishment. "Minted in England. Less than a century before the Romans left, to the best of my knowledge."

On the plain white card embossed with his initials, The Dragon had inscribed, in his spidery handwriting, "For two halves of the same coin. With my sincere wishes for your happiness. J.H.D."

"Oh," said Merlin, handling the coin as though it was about to explode. "What an odd coincidence. My mum said pretty much the same thing. In the same words."

"Really?" replied Arthur, scrutinizing the emblems on both sides. "Well, you needn't worry about my father saying anything of the sort. This is an impressive object. I wonder if we should put it in the safe, in the study."

"Why bother," Merlin said, shrugging. "Your father has a Degas sculpture in the dining room, and a Da Vinci drawing, a Turner, and two Renoirs on the walls; why hide a Roman coin?"

"A burglar can't walk down the street with a Renoir sticking out of his pocket, you idiot," was Arthur's response. "It's easy to hide a Roman coin. Now, I wonder why he chose this particular thing."

"Perhaps he has a thing about the Romans," Merlin said absently, turning the coin over and over. "He's a lawyer; aren't they partly responsible for our legal system? There weren't any Pendragons in Roman Britain, were there?"

"Not quite," Arthur responded, watching the metal disc catch the light as Merlin spun it between slim, pale fingers. "I don't think there were any until shortly after the Romans left, and the Britons needed somebody to fight off the Saxons."

"There isn't any proof, is there?" Merlin mumbled skeptically. "I mean, people brag about their families going back to the days of the Tudors, or the Plantagenets, or the Conqueror, but all the way back to the...what, fifth century? Anyway, I'm having difficulty imagining you, or some ancestor who looked like you, swaggering through Londinium, or whatever."

"Who knows?" Arthur shrugged, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket, his eyes on the clean, graceful line of Merlin's nose in profile, and the curl of his upper lip. "I wouldn't be surprised if there was a Roman ancestor. Pity we can't go back in time to check."

"If we were in Roman Britain," Merlin said, twitching that perfect nose, "you wouldn't like it. Trapped in a world without four-star restaurants, football, and Armani."

"If we were in Roman Britain," said Arthur at his most supercilious, "I would be a stalwart centurion, or honored legate of the legions, and you would be a humble Celt, running about in animal skins and living in the cold north."

"Hah," replied Merlin, unimpressed. "If this was Roman Britain and you were one of those interfering Roman legionaries, you'd be coming at me with whips and chains, and, erm, olive oil."

"Whips and chains?" said Arthur, horrified. "What is going on in your little head, Merlin? I've never been into, uh, sado-masochism, that is, not _really_, and I don't think I ever will be."

"I hope you're not going to say that dominance isn't your thing," Merlin said smugly. "Because that would be a profound lie."

"It isn't, and that isn't," snapped Arthur. "I have no interest in whipping you. As much as you might, well, deserve it on occasion. As for, uh, olive oil...today's grease-free products are so much less messy."

"You've tried it with olive oil, then?" Merlin asked, sounding only mildly surprised.

"No!" shouted Arthur, flinging his jacket onto a chair. "Will you stop talking about...look, it's getting me...putting me into a state."

Merlin looked. "Impressive," he said cheerfully. "But this isn't exactly the time or pla—"

"Boys," Morgana sang out as she waltzed back into the room, "I've just spoken with Gwen and Lance. They'll be here two days before The Big Event. Gwen wants to visit her brother, Elyan, who's living in Kent, and Lance can meet with some armor specialists at the National Gallery. Gaius is flying over with them. Percival sends his best wishes, and wishes he could come as well. Oh, and Gaius says Leon had the alarm system overhauled again, and the technicians couldn't find a thing wrong with it…Arthur, are you ill? You're all red in the face."

"I am _not_ ill. In fact, I've never felt better," Arthur said icily. "I'm _delighted _to hear about the alarm system. And I hope there's an end to the situation."

"Aren't you _delighted_ to hear that your friends and colleagues will be arriving en masse before you tie the knot? Let's see…Gwen, Lance, Gaius…and of course Will…"

"What about lover boy, I mean Leon? Isn't he coming as well?"

"He'll be here tomorrow," said Morgana complacently. "And for God's sake, stop calling him lover boy. It's getting to be absurd. Now, Arthur. I don't want a word of protest from you, but we simply must discuss your after-party." She had picked up one of the old family photo albums from a side table, and was flipping through it casually. "The Big Day is almost upon us, after all. And if you don't tell me what you're going to wear, I will make you sorry you were ever born."

* * *

**The chapter title is from a song by The Who.**

**Thanks to readers of this fic for their remarkable staying power, and for the reviews. A few have disabled their FF private messaging, and I can't thank them personally, so I do so here.**


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: Countdown**

One thing Arthur had found out about being affianced, so to speak, was that everybody in creation was itching to offer advice and suggestions about how to proceed with his "wedding."

Of these, Morgana was unquestionably the worst. That is to say, the most persistent. And now, with the signing and the subsequent party two days away, she was showing no signs of letting up. If anything, she was even more fiercely energized. She had reserved the restaurant for the after-party, had apparently arranged the menu without consulting him, and had badgered him, as well as Merlin, about what they were planning _to__ wear_ to it.

"Why is this so bloody important? You're not planning to wear a matching outfit, I hope," Arthur had said witheringly. "Look, Morgs. I'm not going to go all girly and obsess about what I'm supposed to wear to this thing—I assume you're talking about the party and not the signing. As far as signing the document goes, we'll dress appropriately; nothing elaborate. The sort of thing we wear to work. You're not going to show up at the Registrar's office in some filmy, backless garment, are you?"

"Certainly not," hissed his stepsister, tightening her lips. "I know what's appropriate and what isn't. What I'm concerned about is what you're going to wear to _the__ party_. As for the signing in the Registry office, a nice jacket and tie would be perfectly fine for you. But Arthur, Merlin can't possibly wear the sort of thing he goes to work in."

Both heaved a sigh, recalling Merlin's typical garb, on any given day, at the Institute: jeans and an ancient, faded tee or vintage rugby shirt. Or possibly a brand new tee, with some sort of cryptic logo on the front.

Well, yes, alright, on days when he had to meet with curators or officials from other museums, or needed to visit an auction house or dealer, he dressed neatly in a suit and tie, and unwrinkled white shirt. But those occasions were few and far between.

"I'm forced to admit you have a point there," Arthur finally said, ruefully. "I'll see to it he doesn't step into the Registry wearing his oldest jeans and a Grateful Dead hoodie. And God forbid that he brings that hideous brown jacket. But it'll ease your mind to know that we brought our morning suits for the after-party."

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"I don't only wear old tee shirts," Merlin said in an affronted voice. "I wear plenty of new ones."

"That isn't the point, _Mer_-lin," drawled his Assistant Director, looking him up and down. "You're not to wear a tee shirt of any sort."

Merlin had no intention of wearing a tee shirt, if only for his mother's sake, but he raised his eyebrows and lifted his chin as if challenging Arthur's authority anyway.

"Look," Arthur said patiently. "_I_ don't bloody care what you wear, you could go naked as far as I'm concerned, but others might be a bit dismayed if you show up for the signing with holes in your jeans and a faded Eric Clapton all over your chest."

For some reason or other, it amused Merlin to see Arthur so concerned about his selection of clothing, so he sat down in a convenient armchair—they were sitting in Arthur's room, using his computer to read up on what they were supposed to do when the signed the document—and made no reply.

His visit with his mother had been a balm to his agitated nerves. He had spent an evening with her, and her friends Isolde and Mark, in the little house in Chelsea, chatting with them through dinner and well into the night. However, Hunith herself had been rather insistent about her son's choice of getup for the day of the signing, and had grilled him on the subject over their dessert of coffee and fruit.

"You've never been particularly clothes-conscious, darling," she had admonished him when he announced that he had no idea what he was going to wear. "You want Arthur to be proud of you."

"Mum, please! You'd think I was a bride, getting tricked out in lace and satin."

"_Mer_lin," she had said, for all the world like Arthur, and he had relented.

"I have a suit I can wear to the Registry," he said obligingly. "And for the party…well, Arthur and I brought our morning suits. They're, you know, elegant and …I suppose I'll look rather, erm, posh."

"Lovely," Hunith had murmured, at least partly satisfied with his response. "Iz, do remind me to bring my camera."

The very next day, Merlin had received a telephone call from Will, and it became apparent that what to wear to the party was on nearly everybody's mind.

"Will? It's got to be four a.m. in New York…don't you have work this week?"

"Work?" snorted Will, derisively. "Yeah, we do, today, and then we're flying to London the day after, you brainless git! Be there by evening. The Big Day approacheth, my son. Your wedding tackle's in good condition, I hope?"

"Oh shut up!" snapped Merlin, glad that Will couldn't see him blush. "What's new in New York? I heard there was an exhibition opening at The Metropolitan."

"The usual thing," replied Will, a little contemptuously. "Same old crowd milling round the drinks table. Assorted museum types chatting each other up and checking each other out. Mostly east coasters. A contingent from Boston. Nimueh with her baps hanging out of her designer frock."

Merlin laughed. "Went after you, did she?"

"Noooo," said Will, drawling out his words. "Didn't even look at me, for pity's sake. I'm thinking she's still hot for her ickle Merlin."

"Shut up," Merlin had groaned again, recalling Nimueh's eagle-eyed pursuit of him in Santa Barbara. "She only wanted to add me to her conservation staff. Tell me something else. Does your mum know you're coming to London?"

"Yeah, which means I'll have to get a ride to Ealdor after you say the magic words, or she won't speak to me til next Christmas."

"The magic words?" Merlin said absent-mindedly.

"'_I__ do_,' you nit," Will snorted. "What did you think I meant? Not that I mind spending a day or two at home with Mum, but..."

"I don't think we actually _say_ anything, we just sign a document," muttered his childhood friend. "I imagine you've told all of Ealdor that I'm marrying Prince Charming, and will never have to work another day in my life, if I don't want to."

"Fuck off," Will had said cheerfully. "I don't tell those dimwits in Ealdor anything. I know you'll never stop working, you're far too devoted to your bloody craft. I'll see you _tomorrow_. Oh, er, mate, about this party. Lance wants to know as well, uh, how, precisely, are we meant to dress…?"

Well, tomorrow had become today, and Merlin's colleagues from the Institute would be arriving, en masse, in the early evening. (All except for Leon, who was already in London, holed up in a nearby hotel where Morgana could visit him.) According to an email from Gaius, they would head straight from Heathrow to the hotel, to unwind and get some sleep, before everybody met for an informal dinner the _following_ night. ("On the night before the Big Day," Gaius emailed jovially, causing Merlin to wince.) And now Merlin was sitting in Arthur's armchair, still challenging him on the subject of what he could and couldn't wear when they signed the bloody civil union agreement.

"For pity's sake, Merlin," Arthur was expostulating. "I can be forthcoming, if you can't. I thought I'd wear that medium-grey suit, a white shirt, and dark blue tie to the Registry…nothing outrageous or too formal."

"That _cobalt _blue tie?" asked Merlin, eyebrows still raised. "That should catch people's eye. Oh all right, if it'll make everybody happy, I'll wear my grey suit as well. And a powder blue tie. Will that satisfy your lordship?"

"You can satisfy me later," replied his Assistant Director with an evil look. "We'll come here afterward, to change into the morning suits for the party. Didn't they give you the standard talk on how to dress for different occasions when you were a kid at school?"

"I went to the local comprehensive, not a high and mighty public school, like you,"* Merlin said. "We didn't get much personalized attention."

"Oh stop pulling the class card, Merlin," Arthur said, yawning. "It's obvious you're just as well-educated as I am."

Merlin rolled his eyes as he eased himself out of the armchair and stood up. "I suppose, at Eton, you were the Golden Boy overachiever everybody loves to hate."

"On the contrary," Arthur replied, eyebrows raised. "I was very popular. Just ask any of my former schoolmates, you idiot."

Merlin's eyes were still rolling. "Right, and they're likely to tell the world that the well-educated, well-dressed, good-looking Acting Director of the Pendragon Institute was a complete and utter prat and all-round schoolyard bully."

He realized that he had probably gone a bit too far with that last statement, but honestly, his nerves were so tightly strung, and he was not in the mood to put up with any of Arthur's _Merlin-is-an-idiot_ quips.

And now Arthur was turning towards him with a predatory smile, his eyes alight with a very familiar expression of…

"Well, _Mer_lin," Arthur said pleasantly, taking a step forward. "I don't suppose you'd care to withdraw that comment?"

"No I wouldn't," said Merlin stubbornly, but he took a step back. "And don't look at me like that. I know you're just restless because you've been shut up indoors for days, and haven't been able to order people about as you usually do, or work out at the gym, or play football, or—"

Two seconds after he said this, he realized what a fearful mistake he'd made, because Arthur tackled him like an _American __football_ linebacker, and brought them both crashing down onto the (carpeted) floor, where Merlin ended up on the bottom.

"Ow!" said Merlin with as much indignation as he could muster without being able to breathe very well. It hadn't really hurt, because Arthur had managed to get his arm behind Merlin's head when they fell, and had kept it there.

"Serve you right," murmured Arthur, grinning, but after the requisite three-minute kiss, which was as gut-wrenching as usual, he stood up and held out a hand to his young conservator. Merlin scrambled to his feet, panting and grumbling, only to be pushed against the wardrobe door, with Arthur's hands sliding beneath his shirt.

They were engrossed in this for several more minutes, and Merlin was thinking to himself, groggily, that it was really only, what, two more nights before they were legally joined and ensconced in a hotel room for their…could you call it a wedding night?...and couldn't Arthur wait _just__ two__ more __days_, rather than take the risk of having Uther walk in on them? He was wondering how he could vocalize this, when the door swung open and Uther _and_ Morgana were revealed on the threshold.

Obviously, Merlin was not the only person in the world who opened other people's doors without bothering to knock.

Merlin froze, whilst Uther and Morgana gaped silently.

Unable to completely disengage his mouth, Merlin attempted to say, "Arthur, it's your father," except that what came out was "Arfurmurfur." Arthur—his back to the door—was too preoccupied to notice that Merlin's eyes had gone as wide as a child's when faced with the realisation that Santa, or Father Christmas, was really Daddy in a padded costume and fake beard. Merlin pushed at his chest, trying to be unobtrusive about it, and Uther said "Oh!" at the same time, and Arthur drew his lips and hands away and spun round, blushing furiously but doing his best to look calm and mature and matter-of-fact, and not like a schoolboy caught fooling about in the bushes.

Uther went crimson and looked as embarrassed as Arthur, but Morgana, who had also blushed, was bright-eyed with triumph.

"That is _so_ sweet," she said decidedly, and both Arthur and Uther looked at her aghast. "I've been simply dying to see the two of you show a little affection from time to time." Through a haze of embarrassment, Merlin noticed that she was clutching several of the old family photograph albums she had been examining the last time he saw her. "Sorry to interrupt and all that, but dear old Pelles has just arrived, and is downstairs unwrapping his manuscript in the study."

"Right," said Arthur unsteadily, automatically straightening his collar. "Let's go, then." Uther was clearly at a loss for words, but both father and son gathered up the tattered remains of their dignity, and Merlin—who considered his own dignity totally trashed—followed the little group down the stairs to the study, where Pelles Fisher-King was placidly unwinding his prized offering from layers of tissue paper.

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The manuscript was as stunning as Merlin had remembered, and Uther—who had only seen digital photographs—was highly impressed. His chagrin and embarrassment forgotten, he gazed at the richly colored pages, glowing with gold leaf, with an air of satisfaction. Mr Fisher-King turned the pages slowly, for their inspection, but it was plain that Uther was itching to add the piece to the Institute's permanent collection.

Merlin chewed his lower lip when they got to the page displaying the figures and composition that appeared in both the Courtiers' Tapestry and the Sicilian mosaic, and Uther squinted at the partially obliterated inscriptions.**

"_Artorius_," he read quietly. "Well, well. Now, if we could only read the name beneath this other figure. This is splendid, Pell. I think I can guarantee that the Institute will find the funds to purchase it."

"That _is_ splendid," murmured Mr Fisher-King, smiling gently. "I've had it in mind for you for some time. And nobody else has seen it. Incidentally, I've also brought some papers that come with it: records of an eighteenth-century sale, and some nineteenth-century sketches of all of the illustrations. I left those things at my hotel."

Morgana had abandoned the old photo albums she had been leafing through, and was staring at the exquisite illuminations, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Incredible," she said, her voice faint with awe. "There's no question. I'll have to write about this for next year's Bulletin."

"In the meantime," Uther said, pulling himself together. "We'd best get this back under wraps, and into the safe in my study. I'll arrange for the first payment installment to be issued before Arthur and, um, Merlin return to New York."

As Uther got to his feet to assist Mr Fisher-King with his wrapping, Morgana nudged Arthur in the side with her elbow.

"Gaius just emailed," she whispered with only a hint of her usual smirk. "They've all arrived, and are heading to the hotel in taxis. We'll see them tomorrow evening. And don't forget, Merlin's mother is coming to tea beforehand, to meet Uther and Mum and me. It should be quite a circus. Better get some rest tonight, stepbrother dear. Your days as a single man are approaching their end."

* * *

**The term "wedding tackle" for male genitalia seems to be in use on both sides of the Atlantic.**

***Not surprisingly, many Americans get confused over British use of the term "public school," which is called "private school" in the U.S. In other words, a privately-owned school funded by tuition fees and various endowments, not by the state.**

****The manuscript page and inscriptions are described in Chapter 25. I know the length of this fic has gotten a bit out of hand, and I'm sorry!**


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: His Father's Son**

Merlin made a valiant attempt to squeeze his mobile phone between his shoulder and his ear, whilst carrying a pile of plates, mugs, and cutlery to the sink. This met with failure, and everything except the mobile crashed to the floor.

"What in blazes was that?" Arthur snapped, on the other end of the line.

"N-nothing," replied Merlin, edging away from the mess on the carpet, where, fortunately, the plates and mugs were still intact. "Erm, what was it you were saying?"

"Don't forget to be here before four," Arthur admonished his junior conservator. "Your mother's coming to tea, to meet Father and Elaine…and I suppose Morgana and Mordred as well. I think we should both be present to give her moral support, don't you?"

"Mum isn't afraid of anybody," Merlin said into the telephone. "But yeah, I'll be there at half past three. Are we all going to the restaurant together, in cars, to meet the others?"

"I think so," replied Arthur, and Merlin could hear him yawning. "Sorry, didn't sleep as well as I should have. Which is probably your fault. Gaius rang me, and said our colleagues and friends from New York will be at the restaurant by eight."

"How many?" asked Merlin resignedly. "I know about Gwen, Lance, Will, and Gaius. I know Leon's coming. If you tell me _Katrina_ flew over as well, I think I'll just stay in bed."

"No, of course she didn't," said Arthur. "We all know she adores my father but doesn't like me. No, she's glued to her information desk at the Institute. But Percival came, even though he thought he wouldn't be able to, and Gaius told me Gwaine rang him up to say he's coming also. He's bringing Elena—they really _have_ hit it off—and Gwen's bringing her brother Elyan, who lives here. And then there are all my wonderful cousins."

"Oh God," said Merlin. "It'll be a mob scene."

"Don't be ri_di_culous, _Mer_lin," was the response. "It's just a nice, informal dinner tonight, at some quiet little restaurant called the Avalon Arms. It's the after-party, tomorrow…after the, uh, signing, that'll be a mob scene."

"Right," mumbled his young conservator, grimacing. "Well, we'd better gird our loins, as they used to say, and prepare for this bloody circus."

He could almost hear Arthur grinning. "At least we'll get two decent meals out of all this," he continued, through another series of yawns. "Morgana's booked some room at that posh restauruant, the Tintagel, for tomorrow's post-signing party. And she says I'm not to touch you until we've signed the civil whatsis document and are legal partners…so for pity's sake stop talking about _loins_."

Merlin wasn't quite sure why, but Morgana's edict struck him as extremely funny.

"Morgana says you're not to touch me until we've signed that paper? She actually said that? She thinks you're unable to control yourself when faced with the blandishments of a sex-mad Irishman?"

"A _what_?" said Arthur, nearly choking with amusement. "She says I'm the one who's sex-mad. And I suppose she's right, as there've been moments when I nearly had to bully you into bed."

"Yeah, and there probably will be more of them," Merlin replied serenely. "More of those moments, I mean. But I've got used to being bullied by you."

"Insubordinate as usual," growled his Assistant Director. "I can see I'm going to have to take you in hand."

He held the phone away from his ear as it practically reverberated with Merlin's shout of laughter.

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When Merlin arrived on Uther's doorstep a little past three, neatly dressed in semi-casual mode, in his nicest jeans, a shirt and tie, and a well-cut jacket, Arthur opened the door and wordlessly ushered him inside.

"I don't believe it," he said dryly, once he had shut the door, eyeing his junior conservator's garb with a mixture of approval and surprise.

"It's for Mum's benefit," Merlin replied defensively, as Arthur took him lightly by the shoulders and examined him. "Don't want her to be embarrassed by my lack of fashion savvy."

Arthur mumbled something that sounded like "You idiot," led him into the sitting room—Merlin supposed it really should be called a drawing room, as it _was _rather grand—and gestured towards an upholstered chair. Moments later, both Uther and Elaine appeared, followed by Kay, Dinadan, and Bedivere. Merlin stood up politely, only to be pushed back down into the chair by his Assistant Director.

"Merlin, dear," Elaine said fondly, as Uther harrumphed in the background. "I've set out some of the old photo albums for your mother to see when she arrives. I had to prise them out of Morgana's grip…perhaps she wanted to show them off herself." She indicated the small pile of leather-bound photograph albums on a side table, not far from the much larger pile of still untouched "wedding" gifts.

"Not _again_," said Arthur.

Kay was cackling loudly in a corner of the room, and Arthur shot him a threatening glare.

"I just hope she doesn't bring any of _my_ old photos," replied Merlin with trepidation, but his fears were realized half an hour later, when the doorbell chimed and Arthur went to answer it. He returned to the sitting room with Hunith, who was wearing a becoming ensemble of warm browns and reds, one of the largest of her old photo albums tucked under her arm.

Merlin had never been as proud of his mother as he was that afternoon. Hunith faced Uther with a calm friendliness that surely must have impressed him, although he showed no sign of it, and she addressed Arthur's cousins with the same gentle but self-possessed air. Uther himself treated Hunith with punctilious courtesy, but once they were all seated he quietly kept his distance. Elaine, on the other hand, openly warmed to her, and the two women were soon chatting happily as though they were old friends, exchanging stories about young Arthur and young Merlin, and laughing like schoolgirls over vintage photographs of the boys.

"Stop hyperventilating, Merlin," Arthur whispered as they watched the two women paging though Pendragon photo albums.

It was a relief to see that Hunith-whom Arthur both liked and admired for her self-sufficiency and emotional strength-was not likely to feel intimidated by the members of his family. He was even willing to put up with squeals from both Hunith and Elaine as they examined various Arthur images, from infancy onward, and to forgive Hunith for the occasional exclamation of "Oh, so sweeeet!" as they examined one album after another.

"Such lovely hair," Hunith murmured, her eyes moving from a snapshot of four-year-old Arthur playing in a sandbox, disheveled locks almost white-blond in the sunlight, to the young man standing nearby, his hair now a richer, but still bright, shade of gold.

Merlin was grinning at him. Arthur rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

"Oh dear, one of Arthur's baby pictures is missing!" Elaine suddenly exclaimed, having spotted a blank page in one of the albums.

"Oh dear, what a tragedy," mumbled Arthur sarcastically. "Better call in the police."

Morgana chose this opportune moment to appear with Mordred, and the matter of missing photographs was put aside as more introductions ensued. Morgana was charming to Hunith, congratulating her on the brilliance of her son ("Other conservators say the quality of his work is absolutely magical!"), and Mordred, after giving her his unnerving stare and then eyeing her silently for several minutes, suddenly broke into the sweet, childlike smile he rarely bestowed on anybody other than his mother.

"Merlin's quite a credit to the Pendragon Institute," Morgana went on, shooting a glance at her stepfather. "Isn't he, Uther?"

Uther cleared his throat, looked uncomfortable, and said that yes, of course young Merlin had been doing excellent work, and the Institute was, _hrrmm, cough,_ lucky to have him.

Merlin rolled his eyes behind Uther's back. Hunith smiled with pleasure, Elaine patted her arm, and then Arthur interrupted with a startled "Don't forget we're meeting the rest of the motley…uh, our friends at eight, for our little what d'you call it?"

"In any other case, it would be called a rehearsal dinner, but as I don't think you need to rehearse signing your names, we'll have to call it something else," replied Morgana tartly.

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Arthur brought his organizational skills to bear, and managed to pry the ladies away from the photo albums, convince Mordred to change his New York Rangers hockey jersey for a jacket, and get everybody packed into three taxis. The place Morgana had chosen was not far away, and within ten minutes the maitre d' was directing them to several round tables at the back of the restaurant, in a large alcove set off from the rest of the room. Looking round, Arthur saw that his friends and colleagues had already assembled—they were impossible to miss, as Percival towered head and shoulders above everyone in the establishment—and winced as they surged forward.

"Oh, thank goodness!" said Gwen, hugging first Arthur and then Merlin. She was accompanied by a good-looking young man with close-cropped hair, clearly her brother. "With the fearful traffic, we thought you'd all be late. It's wonderful to see you! And tomorrow…aren't you excited? Now Arthur, stop grimacing, we're all thrilled. This is my brother, Elyan. I don't think you've met before. "

"Hallo, Mordred," Will said loudly, ruffling the boy's hair. "Been missing us, have you?" Mordred who _most definitely_ did not like having his hair ruffled, adopted an expression of icy hauteur that would have intimidated all but the most clueless.

"Oh, stop that, Will!" said Gwen, slapping his hand away. "Leave him alone." More quietly, she murmured in Lance's ear, "D'you think he'll be handsome when he grows up? He's certainly a striking-looking child—and those eyes!"

Mordred, his blue eyes wide in his pale, intense little face, surveyed Institute staffers and family alike with something resembling the glance a teacher might give to a class of five year olds, incapable of reading much more than "The cat sat on the mat."

"The kid's positively scary at times," Will muttered under his breath. "Must have a genius IQ, or something. He's certainly not your usual child, is he? It's those Pendragon genes."

"He's certainly got the Pendragon eyes," Lance said kindly. "They're a bit like Arthur's."

"More like Merlin's," Arthur said, looking from his little half brother to his junior conservator. "I wasn't nearly as brainy as he is, at his age," he added honestly, gesturing to Mordred to sit next to him. "That is, I was a good student, an _excellent_ student if I do say so, but Mordred would have left me in the dust."

Mordred gave his older brother a look that bordered on grateful as he silently took his place at the table

"He's certainly left all of his schoolmates in the dust," Morgana said proudly. "His grades and test scores are off the charts. And he's well behaved. Arthur may have been a good student, but he was famous for his pranks. As I recall, he spent a large portion of his early teens sitting on a hard chair in the headmaster's office."

"Sounds like me, then," said Gwaine, appearing suddenly from behind Percival's solid bulk. He shook hands with Arthur and slapped Merlin so heartily on the back that he stumbled forward, colliding with Arthur's chest. "If my school had gone in for caning, I would definitely have been caned every day."

After milling about for several minutes—during which time Hunith was introduced to everybody, Gwen introduced Elyan, the Pendragon cousins introduced themselves all round, and Uther was congratulated on his knighthood—they all found their places at the tables. Merlin sat down next to Gaius, who had given him a gentle hug and patted him on the shoulder in a fatherly fashion. He then blushed and laughed as Gwaine waggled his eyebrows at him suggestively, undeterred by the presence of a smiling Elena.

"Well," Morgana said, taking the chair next to Leon and beaming as wine was poured for the entire company. "I'm so delighted that you're all here. The evening will be much livelier than it would have been otherwise. And the conversation will be nicer. Ordinarily, a Pendragon family dinner is like unto the Spanish Inquisition."

Uther frowned at Morgana but then chuckled in spite of himself, and the rest of the family—with the exception of Mordred, who remained poker faced—repressed their laughter with an effort.

"In anticipation of tomorrow's, uh, _wedding_," Morgana went on smoothly, "we, that is I, had these little gift bags made up for the lot of you. To express our thanks that you've actually crossed the ocean to see my erstwhile playboy of a stepbrother tied for life."

"Morgana," hissed Arthur, but everybody else was fumbling with the ribbons on the little silk gift sacks that had been placed next to their wine glasses. Each contained a miniature sack of rice ("Good God!" said a horrified Uther, no doubt thinking of _press photographs_ of his son and Merlin being pelted with rice on the doorstep of his home), a box of chocolate truffles that had Mordred beaming for the first time that day, and a gift certificate to one of Morgana's favorite shops. ("Does everything have to be so _girly?_" Arthur whispered, scowling.) The final item in the gift bags had the entire company howling with laughter. Morgana's stepbrother went pale and then turned red the moment he unearthed his, and Merlin recognized this object instantly. It now became clear why Morgana had been studying the family's old photo albums so assiduously.

It was a duplicate print of his favorite Baby Arthur picture; Merlin had seen the original during his first visit to Uther's home, the previous year. There was his civil partner-to-be at ten months of age, wearing nothing but a nappy and brandishing a rattle as though it was a broadsword. Hair like pale candyfloss fluff, dimples in his plump knees and rounded, pink-and-white face, but an expression of ferocious concentration—not to mention determination—in those blue eyes.

"_Morgana_," Arthur said again, in seething tones, quite overcome by his senior curator's evil. "I thought we were _friends_."

Morgana narrowed her eyes and smiled.

"Better than you deserve," she said under her breath. "After that hideous rat thing you put in my bath. Do you realize I went screaming down the stairs, practically naked, in front of everybody?"

Arthur assumed a look of affronted innocence, but Merlin gave him away by guffawing into his wineglass. "It was only me, and Dinadan's wife, really, Morgana," he said a moment later. "Nobody else saw."

Morgana shrugged histrionically, but continued to smirk.

Now that the laughter had died down, the company turned attention to the plates of food that were being set out on the table, and Merlin raised his eyebrows at the sight of their number and contents.

"You'll need to put another hole in your belt tomorrow," he murmured, and his Assistant Director kicked his ankle (not too hard) under the table.

"How are things at the Institute?" Arthur asked Gaius a moment later, changing the subject. He spoke quietly as his companions tucked into their roast sirloin (Merlin had a vegetable lasagna). "Everything going well? No more alarm problems? I hadn't heard otherwise, so I assumed…"

"Things have been running smoothly enough," Gaius conceded, shrugging. "And even though we can't offer much in the way of promotions or pay raises this year, nobody on staff has left the Institute, except for that fellow Edwin—remember?—earlier this spring."

"Right, I remember," Arthur replied. "That sour-faced fellow who worked in the gift shop and stockroom. I remember thinking good riddance when he left, anyway." *

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By the time their colleagues had drifted off to fetch jackets and wraps (for it was mildly chilly) and make their way back to their hotel, Morgana, who had borrowed a friend's car for the evening, had offered to drive Hunith back to Chelsea. She then went into a mild panic because she couldn't remember where she had parked the borrowed vehicle, and stalked off into the night to search for it, leaving Hunith, Merlin, and Arthur in the quiet of the dining room. Uther had disappeared to make a call to a business associate on his mobile, and Elaine had taken a sleepy Mordred outside to get a breath of fresh air.

"I'd drive you back to Gwaine's brother's," said Arthur soberly. "But Morgana says I'm to stay away from you the night before the, uh, thing. For some reason, she thinks it's bad luck for the, er, groom and groom to see each other right before the ceremony, or in our case, the signing. Where she gets these old fashioned ideas I couldn't say. She's hardly an old fashioned girl."

"Is Uther an old fashioned father, then?" Merlin asked, allowing his accent to become more pronounced. "The poor man. After tomorrow, he's going to have to face the fact that you and I are _actually sleeping together_." He glanced across the room to make certain his mother hadn't heard him.

"Right," murmured Arthur, unexpectedly smiling. "What do you suppose he thinks we've been doing all the time we've been sharing a flat?"

"He thinks we've been living in jolly old celibacy," chanted Merlin in a sing-song voice. "If he even thought about what we might be doing, he'd want to have me hung, drawn, and quartered. Or at least beheaded."

"How medieval," replied Arthur, still smiling. "Well, he can't. I forbid it. A good conservator's hard to come by."

"I'm not that good."

"Oh shut up, Merlin," said Arthur gruffly, taking him by the elbow and shaking him. "Don't be such an imbecile. Everybody says you're one of the best."

"And what do you say," Merlin replied, looking at Arthur through his eyelashes. "Hmmm?"

"Stop that!" said Arthur, releasing his young conservator's elbow and backing away. It didn't make it easier that Merlin, damn it all to hell, had the most tantalizing mouth in all creation. "You're just trying to get me…uh."

"Merlin," Hunith called, crossing the room towards them. "Before everybody goes home to bed—we all need some rest before the big day tomorrow—there's something I need to give you. It's important. Don't make faces at me, darling, you need to pay attention."

"Why?" said Merlin, grinning as he fell back into the broader accent of his childhood. "You're just me mam."

"Behave yourself, Merlin," Arthur admonished him with a very fake scowl. "Don't be so irreverent."

"In that way, he's very much like Bal," Hunith responded, smiling. "You're your father's son, Merlin."

"Nice to know," Merlin mumbled, smiling back but rather astonished to hear his father's name spoken aloud. He looked at his mother and saw that she was slightly flushed, but of course it might have been from the wine. To his own surprise, he heard himself asking the question he had never put to her before: "I, erm, don't suppose you know where the gentleman is, do you?"

"No…I don't know where he is, love," Hunith replied, very low. "I haven't known in ever so long. He was a good man, and quite brilliant, but he couldn't control the wanderlust…couldn't settle down, stay in one place. Since he left, I only heard from him twice. Once, to say that he was well, and working on an excavation in the Himalayas. The next time was after my letter reached him, telling about your birth. He hadn't known I was pregnant, you see. He was somewhere in Italy then, and he sent a letter of his own, and…and this."

She extended her hand, revealing an object wrapped in a piece of white cloth. Unwrapped, it turned out to be a wooden box that looked somewhat the worse for wear.

"What is it, Mum?" Merlin said encouragingly, thinking to himself that his father must have been the worst kind of arsehole, and that he was probably better off never having known him. Then saw, to his horror, that his mother's eyes were brimming with moisture and her lips were quivering.

"Oh Merlin," she half-whispered. "I don't know if this is the right time to give this to you. It was never the right time. But his letter said you were to have it the day before you…you marry. I don't want to spoil your day for you, but..."

"There isn't any way you could spoil anything for me," replied Merlin, mystified. "Mum, please. Tell me what's wrong."

"I…perhaps I should leave," Arthur began, a little awkwardly, but Hunith shook her head.

"Arthur, no, it's alright," she said firmly, regaining her composure with an effort. "In fact, I should like you to see this. It seems, well, I'm not superstitious, and I've never believed in fate, but it's almost like…like destiny."

Merlin and Arthur exchanged confused looks, and then Merlin held out his hand for the box.

Inside was another cocoon of fabric, and when Merlin had unwound it, he tipped a small, shining object onto his palm and stared at it. It was a pendant of a dragon, beautifully cast in gold, jaws open, with a long, sinuous body and curling tail, wings folded against its sides.

"Oh," said Arthur, trying not to sound amazed. "Is it…Celtic? Scandinavian? Where did he…?"

"I don't know, Arthur," murmured Hunith, her eyes fixed on Merlin. "He said…he only said that he thought it would bring his son luck. Since he couldn't."

Arthur averted his eyes considerately as Merlin closed his fingers round the tiny, golden thing, his eyelids pressed tightly shut over the tears that were spilling down his cheeks anyway.

* * *

*** Edwin quit his job at the Institute in Chapter 19.**


	33. Chapter 33

_My apologies—I know I promised to get this chapter online last week, but I was felled by a really horrible cold, which I still have. So I'm blaming any loopy prose or typos on the medication!_

* * *

**Chapter 33: Champagne and Damask Napkins**

When the alarm on his travel clock went off at seven in the morning, Merlin groaned and pulled the bedclothes over his head.

Then he lowered them enough to peer at the window, and could tell from the brilliance of the early morning light that it was going to be a beautiful day. Which was just as well, as it was his sort-of-wedding day, for pity's sake, and the last thing he needed was a bout of foul weather.

The telephone rang at just that moment, and Merlin grabbed for it, knocking it to the floor, and then had to fumble under the bed until he located it.

"Are you awake?" said Arthur, his voice a little deeper and huskier than usual.

"No," replied Merlin adamantly. "I'm not. And this is not me, and I'm not holding the phone to my ear. Bloody hell, Arthur. You call ME an idiot."

"Shut up," Arthur said amiably. "Get out of bed. Make an effort to look presentable. And don't forget to bring the house key. You'll need to return it to Gwaine, after we—after the—you know, because you won't be staying at his brother's house after today."

Merlin grumbled wordlessly, and gritted his teeth. He had, two days earlier, packed up all of his things and sent them on to the hotel where he and Arthur would be staying for the remainder of their London sojourn. Dinadan had kindly stopped by in his car, and taken Merlin's morning suit back to Uther's, where he and Arthur would change their clothes after the signing at the Register office. He had everything under control…hadn't he? And wasn't it just like Arthur to be a bastard and order him about on the morning of their official whatever-you-call-it.

"Merlin," said Arthur with unexpected gentleness, and Merlin stopped gritting his teeth.

"What do you want _now_?"

"I want _you_, you imbecile," was the husky response, and the last of Merlin's irritation promptly disappeared. "I've been thinking about tonight, and it's got me completely, um…now I'll have to take care of this wretched thing on my own."

Merlin snorted with nervous laughter. "You're joking."

"I'll show you just how much of a joke this is," Arthur said. "Once we're alone. But I think you'd better start getting dressed, if you aren't, already. Dinadan's calling for you at nine; he's driving you to the Registry, remember?"

"This is beginning to turn into an episode from a BBC sitcom," Merlin said, sitting up. "Or an HBO miniseries. Isn't it?"

"Quite," said Arthur calmly. "Now I'm going to go and shave. That is, as soon as I've sorted out this little, I mean big, problem. See you at the altar—I mean the Registry."

Replacing the telephone on the bedside table and scrambling out of bed, Merlin headed for the shower, pausing briefly to look at himself in the long mirror on the wardrobe door. There he was, thin and pale, dark hair in a state that would have made a hedgehog proud, eyelids and mouth a little swollen from sleep. His father's dragon, suspended from a fine gold chain, rested against the pallor of his chest, midway between the pinkish-brown of his nipples. If he turned his head a little, he could see, at the base of his neck where it would be just-barely hidden by a collar, the almost-faded mark of one of Arthur's love bites.

As he stood in the relaxing steam of the shower stall, under the soothing jets of hot water, Merlin thought about the termination of his single state. Here he was, a young man from a country town, with a good education and rather unique, marketable skills. Who, until roughly two years ago, had been accustomed to life in a small flat, on his own, with no ties to anything other than his mother, a handful of close friends, and his profession. Who had been happy with the respect of fellow conservators and an uncomplicated social life. Now he was living in a huge, well-appointed flat, with a prodigiously wealthy, well-connected, gorgeous and incredibly virile _prat_, and had ties to more people and institutions in his field than he had ever imagined possible. His picture had appeared in various magazines. Officials from other museums addressed him with attentive politeness, some even _fawned_ disgustingly over him and called him the wizard of the art conservation world. He knew that this last bit was due, if only in part, to his relationship with Arthur Pendragon. It was almost too much to take in, at times.

Merlin's friends had teased him about having "wedding" jitters, but today, for the first time, he actually had them. He could understand, at this point, why some people simply up and eloped, avoiding the parties and photographers, flowers, crowds of grinning friends and well-wishers, and cakes with white icing. But there was no escaping any of these things now. All sorts of timeworn clichés and platitudes ran through his brain. The die was cast, the game was afoot, the jig was up. He was in love.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Dinadan Pendragon-Wells pulled his car up to the curb, he found Merlin waiting for him, wearing a simple but well-fitted grey suit, the spikiness of his hair partially tamed, his face composed. From the brightness of his blue eyes, and his clenched fingers, Dinadan could guess that he was nervous, but he gave his usual wide, boyish grin at the sight of Dinadan's wife and two girls in the back seat of the car, and slid into the front seat without hesitation.

During the short drive to the register office, the twins sang songs and argued over ownership of a toy squirrel, Dinadan told a stream of silly jokes in an effort to take Merlin's mind off of things like Uther and the tabloid press, and Enid periodically murmured, "Din, that's absurd," and coughed if the jokes became too racy for the children.

The "wedding" party was waiting on the pavement when Dinadan drove up. They occupied quite a lot of space, and pedestrians occasionally glowered or muttered as they inched or shoved their way past the sea of well-dressed Pendragon relatives. Uther, grim-looking and stately, held his beaming wife's arm, Morgana chatted with Bedivere, Kay, and various Pendragon spouses, Mordred favored the entire company with his inscrutable ice-blue stare, and old Pelles Fisher-King stood by himself, gently smiling and nodding his head. In contrast, Merlin had only Hunith, attractive and smiling in a suit newly bought for the occasion, and Freya, eye-catching in a dress the color of water. However, his colleagues from the Institute, clearly aware of this imbalance, had ranged themselves alongside his mother and his female guest.

To Merlin's surprise, John the Great Dragon was standing behind Uther. He was as sharp-eyed and intimidating as ever, wearing his usual sardonic smile, but Merlin was touched to see that he had left his Washington, DC, lair to put in an appearance.

"Your cousin Ambrosius is sorry he couldn't be here," Hunith whispered to Merlin as he wrapped his arms round her. "He's in Spain, on business. But he sent you a beautiful lusterware plate, fifteenth century, as a gift."

All eyes turned to Arthur as he stepped forward from the crowd and made his way to Merlin's side. He looked both serious and magnificent in a suit of a slightly darker grey than Merlin's, his fair hair a glowing helmet of gold in the morning sun. He kissed Enid, patted the girls' matching braids, thanked Dinadan under his breath, and then put one hand lightly behind Merlin's elbow to guide him into the building. The remainder of the party hastened to follow.

This made for quite a press of people trying to get through the door at once, and if Merlin had been less nervous, he would have been entertained by the comic sight.

"Last moments of freedom, mate," whispered Will as they made their way down the hall, and into an antechamber, where several other couples were sitting. There was a limited number of hard, rather shabby-looking chairs, so most of the Pendragon crowd remained standing, whilst the other waiting couples eyed the fashionably-clad throng with curiosity. Uther was surveying the dim, undistinguished-looking room with an air of resignation, and Arthur, having procured two of the chairs, made Merlin sit down next to him.

A drowsy eyed clerk emerged from the registrar's chambers and called "Hawkins!" in a bored voice. A youthful looking couple leapt up and followed him through the door.

"I know this place looks terribly ordinary and drab," Morgana said in a low voice. "But wait until you see the dining room at the Tintagel. I've taken care of everything."

"Great," said Arthur absently, his eyes going to Merlin's profile and noting how those pillowy lips were pressed together. "Just think. If Father had had his way, I'd be marrying Elena, or somebody like her, and we'd be at St. Paul's or some equally grand place of worship."

"Elena doesn't look disappointed to me," replied Morgana, looking across the room to where Gwaine and Elena were holding hands behind Uther's back. Elena was eyeing her escort with affectionate exasperation, as Gwaine entertained a group of male Pendragons with stories of wild escapades in New York, as well as some extremely risqué jokes.

"Have you arranged the seating for the after-party, or reception, or whatever we're calling it?" Arthur asked.

"Naturally," his stepsister replied with a touch of asperity, watching as another of the waiting couples entered the registrar's office. "Pay attention, Arthur, I think you're up next."

"Where do you suppose your charming cousin Kay will be seated?" whispered Merlin, running his own eyes over Arthur's extended family.

"Oh, I told Morgana to put him next to Gwaine," Arthur whispered back. "If he can't shut Kay up, nobody can."

The door to the office opened and a cheerfully blushing pair emerged, followed by the sleepy-looking clerk.

"Pendragon," said the clerk, and Arthur got to his feet.

"This is it, then," he said, as Merlin stood up, ashen but smiling, with eyes downcast. "Let's go."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The officiating registrar was a kindly-looking man in his middle years, and his vaguely parental appearance had a calming effect on Merlin's nerves. He extended their document with an easy-going smile, looking only mildly surprised at the crush of people that had suddenly invaded his little office. If he recognized Sir Uther, he made no sign of it, and simply asked for Arthur and Merlin's identification papers.

Arthur, who had been acutely aware of his father standing only several paces behind him, signed his name with a steady hand. When Merlin had finished signing his, they turned round to face the company. Merlin's hands were clenched tightly together, but Arthur reached over and took one of them in a firm grip. It was icy cold, but grasped his just as strongly. Arthur raised their clasped hands briefly overhead, in a victory gesture, and there was a muted cheer from the assembled guests.

Arthur glanced at his father, but Uther's face was quite expressionless. Elaine was smiling and patting her lashes with a tissue. Gwen was beaming and clutching Lance's sleeve. Hunith hadn't wept, but her eyes were unmistakably misty as she clung to Gaius' arm. Gaius himself had coughed several times since they entered the chamber, and he had been seen to mop at his eyes with one of his large handkerchiefs. But there really hadn't been enough time for anybody to cry, as the signing of the document had taken far less time than any sort of vows might have, and the drowsy clerk was now consulting his list of upcoming couples, some of whom were doubtless awaiting their turn in the antechamber.

Arthur said a quiet "Thank you," to the registrar, and turned back to his assembled entourage. As the others all headed for the door, however, he stopped, took Merlin by the wrist, and caught his young half brother by the shoulder with his other hand.

"Mordred," he said in a loud whisper, and then mouthed something silently. Uther's younger son rolled his eyes with an exasperated look, and reached into his jacket pocket, from which he pulled a small, velvet-covered box.

"You almost forgot," he whispered back in an accusing voice. Then he vanished through the door with the others, leaving Arthur and Merlin alone in the chamber with the registrar, who was still smiling benignly at them.

Merlin gaped at the box, but before he could utter any protests or objections (such as, "How-many-times-have-I-told-you-_not_-to-_buy_-me-things"), Arthur flipped the lid open and revealed a pair of narrow gold bands, resting within on a bed of dark blue satin.

"I had them designed especially," he muttered, turning a little red. "Don't you remember when I measured your finger?* They're, uh, Welsh gold, and if you look carefully…"

Merlin looked carefully. They were exquisitely made, but very simple. They also looked quite plain, until one peered closely enough to see that a flame-like pattern was finely etched round each one.

"Like dragon fire," Arthur said, still slightly flushed. "Quite a coincidence, your…your father's gift, don't you think?"

"Arthur," Merlin began, and then fell silent, at a loss for words.

Arthur lifted Merlin's left hand and slid one ring into place, and then waited. After a moment, Merlin appeared to gather his wits together; he cautiously picked up the remaining ring, and slipped it onto Arthur's finger.

"They're beautiful," he murmured in a hushed voice, brushing a fingertip over the shining gold on his own hand. "I can't believe…erm, when did you—?"

"Perfect," said Arthur, clearing his throat. "I mean, the fit."

"I can't believe you had Mordred as your _ringbearer_," Merlin said, in an effort to inject a little humor into the seriousness of the moment. "And not Morgana."

"Morgana?" replied Arthur in shocked tones. "Surely you're joking. I have no desire to wear poisoned jewelry. Shall we go? There's another couple at the door, waiting their turn to be shackled. You can admire your ring in the car."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was all Arthur could do not to laugh at the sight of Merlin struggling into his morning suit, his brows drawn together with concentration as he tried to get everything right.

"We're not going to have to kiss in front of everybody, are we?" Merlin said suspiciously as he fumbled with the unfamiliar braces and collar studs.

They had been driven straight back to the house on Belgrave Square, where they would change their clothes for the reception (or, as Arthur continued to call it, the 'after-party"). Upon arriving, they were informed that their morning suits had been carefully pressed and laid out in Arthur's old bedroom. The newly joined pair went upstairs to change, followed by Morgana's shouted injunctions to keep their hands to themselves and behave, as they would be late to their own reception otherwise.

Merlin had only seen Arthur in a morning coat once before—at Gwen and Lance's wedding, which was also the only time he himself had ever worn one—and he was a little bowled over by how staggeringly handsome his Assistant Director looked as he fastened a floral sprig onto his lapel and then pushed his hair back from his brow. He looked like a modern, athletic Mr Darcy, or a twenty-first century Achilles, all sleek and golden, but as he turned away to look for his handkerchief, a loud belching noise broke the silence of the room.

Merlin gave an incredulous smile, and then burst out laughing.

Arthur turned round again, looking faintly embarrassed, one hand pressed to his lips.

"I couldn't sleep, last night," he admitted, adjusting the single button of his tailcoat. "So I got up and ate some leftover pasta with olive oil and anchovy paste. After that, I slept like a top."

"_What?_" said Merlin, wrinkling his nose. "You wanted indigestion on top of the traditional butterflies in your stomach?"

"It's not bad," replied Arthur, and then, unexpectedly, belched again, making Merlin double over with mirth. "I think that's the last of it, at least I hope so," he murmured as he moved towards the door. "A little champagne should take care of the butterflies. I feel like I'm in costume for Alice's White Rabbit, and should have a pocket watch on my waistcoat."

"I feel like the idiot you always call me," said Merlin, suddenly wide-eyed as he looked at himself in the mirror. "I mean, I look like one."

Arthur's glance swept his junior conservator, from his short, spiky black locks and those _ears_, down the length of his very slender body. He looked ethereal, almost delicate, and the contrast of milky skin and the darkness of his hair was all the more striking in the classic formality of the morning suit. Bloody hell, Merlin was _beautiful_. "You look…great," Arthur said abruptly, shrugging his shoulders. "This is so unlike how you usually kit yourself out…although I must confess I've got used to your horrible tee shirts, to the extent that I rather like them. Is that Morgana, bellowing downstairs? Come on, then, _Mer_lin; the car must be here by now."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Morgana might have had her faults, and she was certainly difficult to deal with, at least from Arthur's point of view, but he could not really fault her taste when it came to organizing social events. She had promised to arrange something "lavish yet tasteful," and when they arrived at The Tintagel, and were directed to the private dining area, they found an attractive suite of rooms, airy and elegant but not pretentious, one of which was set up with round tables covered with damask cloth, with damask napkins, what looked like Georgian silver, and sparkling crystal wine and water glasses and champagne flutes. There were white roses and white lilies on the tables, and when everybody was seated, they were served what looked like a combination of breakfast and lunch.

Morgana had been in favor of a wedding breakfast from the very beginning, but as it was a little late in the morning for breakfast, the event had been turned into a brunch.

"Brunch," said Morgana, shuddering. "I don't really like that word. It sounds like some nasty sort of vegetable…a cross between broccoli and an onion, perhaps?"

"See to it that Father has a lot of champagne," Arthur mumbled through a mouthful of bacon and sausage, before snagging one of Merlin's grilled asparagus spears.

As it happened, there was little need to keep refilling Uther's glass, as he kept it replenished on his own. There were quite a few toasts; as "hostess," Morgana, a stylish vision in pale apple green, stood up and gave a cheerfully mocking speech about the dubious joys of growing up with Arthur as a stepbrother (a fencing match they engaged in at home, which ended with lots of broken furniture and the two of them in disgrace, was one of the highlights of her account), and how she had been extremely popular with the girls at school because they all wanted to be introduced to him. As there was no official "best man" (there would have had to be two, and nobody had thought about this beforehand), Lance stood up and took on the best man's role for Arthur, conveying the good wishes of the entire staff of the Pendragon Institute, briefly recounting a number of humorous—and appropriately embarrassing—anecdotes from museum shenanigans, and concluded with the staff's collective praise of the Assistant Director. Will, who had been gawking at Merlin's gold ring, stood up for Merlin and made a tipsy speech about various catastrophic pranks from their teen years in Ealdor. To everybody's astonishment, Mordred, who had been typically silent through most of the meal, stood up and said in his piping treble that he was happy to have Merlin in the family because nobody else understood him, or his interests, and he felt that Merlin was a kind of kindred spirit. (Uther raised his eyebrows, but Elaine nudged his elbow and gave him a stern glance.) Leon and Gwen took turns reading congratulatory notes and emails that had been sent from friends and museum personnel in the States.

When a silver platter with a towering white cake was brought in, and more champagne was poured, Gaius, his face now quite pink beneath his silvery hair, arose and stood at Hunith's side.

"I, ahem…Merlin's mother has asked me to speak on her behalf as well as mine. I can only say that I am happy beyond measure to be here today. I have been a friend to Hunith since before Merlin was born, and having got to know Merlin as a grown man, I can only say this. My boy, I don't think I have ever known a kinder and more considerate individual, or a young person of greater talent and ability. Your life is destined for greatness. I believe you will in time become the greatest conservator ever. To have known you has been my greatest pleasure. You are, and always will be, the son I never had. As for Arthur, he knows the esteem, respect, and affection in which I hold him, and I think the two of them will work together for their own happiness as well as the greater good of the Pendragon Institute."

As Gaius sat down again, a little unsteadily ("How much did _he _have to drink?" Merlin asked Arthur under his breath), to resounding applause, the entire company turned to Uther. They had all, by now, had too much champagne to be subtle and look at him surreptitiously. Fortunately, Uther appeared to be in a similar state (Dinadan had cleverly emptied close to an entire bottle into his uncle's glass during the toasts and speeches), for after a moment the senior Pendragon got to his feet, looked round the room, and then took encouragement from another generous slug of champagne.

"I, um, wish to thank all of you for coming here today, for this, er, festive occasion." He bit one of his knuckles and then glanced at his son. "As you can imagine after hearing those stories of pranks and hijinks, watching Arthur grow up was quite an experience, so to speak. To my profound relief, he excelled in his studies, and then in his professional life. It was my dearest wish that he would find a kindred spirit, as my younger boy so aptly calls it, to share his life with. As we, er, all know, he has found someone who…who suits him admirably, and has…has excellent qualities of his own. All I have ever wished for is my children's success and happiness, and so…and so…I offer a toast. To Arthur and, hic, M-merlin."

He then sat down with a smile indicative of his inebriated state.

There was a lot of cheering and the traditional raised glasses; several Institute staffers voiced the usual, traditional wedding jokes, and Gwaine shouted, "What about a kiss, then?" to further applause.

"Oh _no_," groaned Merlin under his breath, peering at Arthur through the curtain of his lashes. He had forgotten all about the traditional _kissing_, and now imagined Uther brandishing the cake knife, but Arther slid a finger beneath his chin, raised his face, and kissed him on the mouth. This occasioned even more applause, and Merlin hardly knew in which direction to look, other than at his plate. But Arthur grinned and got to his feet, before pulling his junior conservator to his, in order to perform the ritual of cutting the massive white cake.

"I do think, Arthur, that you could have had a little ceremony for your exchange of rings," Morgana complained moments later, as she tucked into her slice. "Mordred could have carried them on a little satin pillow."

"Good God, no!" muttered her stepbrother, looking exasperated. "This was hardly a church wedding, Morgana. No need for organ music, scattered rose petals, flower girls, and ring bearers with satin pillows."

Merlin was examining his ring with a conservator's eye. "It's really beautifully molded," he said seriously, holding it between thumb and forefinger and turning it under the light. He saw his Assistant Director smile. "Now you're laughing at me?"

"Not really," Arthur replied. He had drunk a modest amount of champagne and was almost completely sober, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable. "I was thinking of what I'd like to do when I get you alone in our hotel."

"What you'd like to do…"

"What I'd like to do _first_," said Arthur with a maddeningly self-satisfied air.

Merlin glared at him—did the man have to look so bloody smug?—but there was no time to take Arthur to task, as John Draca plunked himself down on a chair next to his and began a long-winded explanation of how he had found the Roman coin he had gifted to them.

"It was excavated at a Romano-British archaeological site," said The Dragon in his suave but gravelly voice. "A fourth century gold _solidus_, in excellent condition, rather rare, I think."

"Yes," Merlin responded, leaning away a little. The Dragon's breath was quite fiery with alcohol, and Merlin suspected that he had been indulging in something a lot stronger than champagne. "That's what I thought it was."

"There's one in the British Museum," The Dragon went on. "The two male figures side by side on the back represent two emperors, sharing the known world. I thought of the two of you the moment I saw it."

"Great," said Merlin politely, wondering how The Dragon could possibly consider him emperor-like, but Arthur was rolling his eyes behind The Dragon's back. He leaned towards his junior conservator to whisper, his breath hot in Merlin's ear. "He'd better shut up; I want to get out of here."

Fortunately, Morgana was loudly thanking everybody for coming, a generous portion of cake, neatly wrapped, was deposited next to the officially united pair, Leon collared The Dragon with questions about the price of a new, high-tech alarm system, and, guests were beginning to stagger to their feet, surfeited with a great deal of food and bubbly drink.

"We'll have to go back to the house to change, _again_," Arthur said, impatiently. "I refuse to wander about in a morning suit until we get to the hotel. Then we'll finally be at liberty to do what we please. Stop fiddling with that collar, _Mer_lin. Tomorrow you can return to your ratty tee shirts and faded jeans, and everything will be back to normal."

"What should I wear this evening, then?" muttered Merlin, running a finger between his starched collar and the sensitive skin of his neck.

"Nothing, I should hope," replied his Assistant Director, lifting one eyebrow slightly. "Not a stitch, until after breakfast tomorrow. Why is everybody still here? If we stand up, people should get the message. Thank the gods Father's drunk. It should make our escape that much easier."

* * *

**Pardon all the cribbing of Gaius' lines from the last episode of Series 1, but I couldn't think of anything else. **

***Arthur measured Merlin's finger in Chapter 15.**


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: The Caerleon**

There was the faint whirring click of a digital camera, and a flash of light. Merlin turned to see Lance grinning cheerfully as he snapped away.

"Arthur said, no official photographers and no press," Lance explained, lowering the camera. "So I'm this event's _unofficial_ photographer. You needn't worry that I'll sell these pics to the tabloids."

"You'd better not," said Merlin, half-joking as he glanced at Arthur, but he could see that his Assistant Director was smiling.

"I think I got everything," Lance went on, squinting at the camera's tiny screen as he viewed the captured images. "All of the tables, flowers, guests, cake, _kiss_."

"Erm," said Merlin, despairingly.

"It's alright, Merlin," Lance murmured reassuringly. "I won't let everybody have copies of _that_ one. Don't look so horrified, mate," he added as other members of the Institute's staff approached. "It's not as if I made a sex tape or anything."

"Honestly, Lance!" snapped Gwen, who had drifted across the room to collect her spouse. "What a thing to say! As if you'd have the opportunity."

"Oh, of course not," Lance replied, pretending to look taken aback. "I'm not a voyeur. And I should imagine Uther's arranged for armed guards around the perimeter of the hotel, to keep any lurking paparazzi away from the wedding suite."

Will made the usual "wedding night" joke about wishing he could be a fly on the bedroom wall, but he made certain to check that he was well out of Uther's hearing.

Gaius cast his eyes towards the ceiling and sighed—not for the first time—at the prurient silliness of the young.

"Which hotel _are_ you staying at?" he asked Merlin quietly. "And I don't think you need worry about paparazzi. There's some allegedly dishy American film star and his entourage at the Savoy, and Lady Gaga's in town today as well, so I doubt that your civil union even registered on their radar."

"It's the Caerleon," replied Merlin, also in an undertone. "I don't know anything about it, but Arthur says it's small, on a quiet street, and not the sort of place you'd be likely to find flashy pop stars or Hollywood divas."

"Ah," said Gaius, his eyes brightening. "The Caerleon! I believe Pelles Fisher-King's staying there. Yes…I've heard the service is excellent…nice facilities, and so on. And Arthur's quite right, it's on a quiet street."

"Well, stepbrother dear," said Morgana, who had joined them bearing a silver platter of meringues. "It appears that your father still harbors dreams of your return to the homeland." She looked over her shoulder at her stepfather, who had migrated to the adjoining room, where sofas, chairs, and little tables were arranged for guests' post-meal collapse. Uther, seated in a highbacked, thronelike chair, was talking to Dinadan, Bedivere, and Mr Fisher-King, whilst Elaine and Hunith hovered in the background. Morgana—who had eavesdropped diligently—announced that he was mulling over the possibility of his older son moving back to London for most of the year.

"Absolutely not," Arthur said promptly.

"_He_ thinks it would be convenient," said Morgana.

"That's bollocks," muttered Will, frowning. "Convenient? How can Arthur run a museum from overseas?"

"And Merlin certainly can't do conservation work on our manuscripts if we're living in London," Arthur continued. "Don't pay any attention, Morgana, Father's drunk. Shall we go, do you think? Elaine can get Father on his feet, and I'm sure the staff of the Tintagel would like us to get a move on so they can come in here and tidy up for their next event. I have to commend you, Morgs. This was the perfect place. Perhaps we'll all come back here to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary, if one of us hasn't done the other in by then. Now, if you would excuse us…"

He collared Merlin and practically dragged him off in the direction of the door.

"Just another hour or two," he murmured. "And we can be off. There are a few things I need to collect at Father's, and then…what is it?"

Merlin's head was lowered and he was coughing with partly-suppressed laughter.

"What is so _funny_, _Mer_lin?" Arthur asked, astonished. "I wasn't aware I'd said anything amusing."

"Well, it was…it was when you mentioned our fiftieth anniversary…it was the image my brain conjured up," spluttered his junior conservator, mopping at his eyes. "Of you and me as a couple of feeble, scrawny old geezers, trying to go at it."

Arthur bit hard on his lower lip to keep from smiling. "I don't know about you," he replied severely. "But I intend to be an extremely fit and robust old geezer, thanks very much. _You_, I imagine, will be even more pathetically scrawny than you are now. Hasn't your doctor told you to take calcium supplements? I shouldn't want to break your frail, tiny bones, when we're two geezers having a go."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What about all of these gifts, Arthur?" asked Elaine, gesturing in the direction of the pile of presents still sitting on one of the sitting room tables.

"I'd rather not open them now, if you don't mind their staying here for another day or two," Arthur replied. His tone was affectionately polite, but Merlin could see that his eyes were dancing with impatience.

They had returned to the Belgravia house, dropped off the few extra gifts—adding them to the small mountain in the sitting room—and gone upstairs to change for the second time that day.

"Am I supposed to feel like a bride putting on her going-away dress?" Merlin had complained, struggling out of his morning suit with as much difficulty as he had had struggling into it earlier. "Or like a groom flinging his wedding kit onto the floor in a fit of passion?"

"If one of us has to play the bride, it certainly isn't going to be me," Arthur replied smugly, glancing at his eminently masculine physique in the mirror. "I don't think either of us is the cross-dressing type, but a gown would look much nicer on you than on yours truly."

Merlin swore muffledly in response as he wrestled his shirt up over his head, and threw his balled-up waistcoat at Arthur, missing him entirely.

Now they were ensconced in the sitting room, with the few members of the "wedding" party who had returned with them, drinking scalding tea to perk themselves up. It was well after the lunch hour, but the large and filling brunch had left most of them with absolutely no desire for food. (Arthur claimed to be hungry, but nobody listened to him.) Merlin stood quietly near his mother, and his Assistant Director made pleasant conversation with the others whilst his mind moved on to…other things.

"I think we've thanked everybody who needs to be thanked," Arthur whispered as Merlin passed him on his way to replenish his cup of tea. "We should be able to sneak off…I just need one quick word with old Pell about that manuscript. He says a first payment installment at the end of the month will be fine."

He stretched his arms and rotated his shoulders, now freed from the constricting stiffness of the formal shirt, braces, and morning coat, and shot a glance at his junior conservator. Merlin was Merlin again, lanky in a thin, grey pullover sweater over his shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, spiky hair and short fringe faintly disheveled from pulling the garment over his head and then absently combing his hair with his fingers. He was fiddling with his wristwatch, eyes midnight blue beneath lowered lashes.

Arthur looked at those wrists, delicately modeled but strong, and swallowed.

Old Pelles Fisher-King and Uther were nattering on about the fifteenth-century manuscript, leaning over the real thing, which Uther had brought out from his office safe. Merlin sidled over to where Gaius was examining high-resolution photos of the page that had fascinated all of them: the image of the noblewomen, flanked by male companions. He was holding a large magnifying glass above the figures of the knight with the golden circlet on his head, and the dark-haired figure beside him.

"If we could clean the inscription below this fellow," Gaius murmured, pointing at the dark-haired male, "we might have an inkling…of course, I have my own notion of who this represents."

"Well, we know who the crowned knight is, anyway," Merlin replied, peering at the tiny letters inscribed beneath him. "_Artorius rex_, it reads as clear as day; I remember that from Bath. If he's King Arthur, who d'you suppose the ladies are?"

"Magnificent, isn't it?" sighed Pelles Fisher-King, joining them. "Don't let me forget to give you the accompanying documents. Remember, I told you about them: complete records of an eighteenth-century sale, and nineteenth-century sketches of all of the illustrations. Oh, and some notes taken by an eighteenth-century owner. I left those things at my hotel, but of course they'll belong to you. Exquisite manuscript, isn't it? I'm pleased to know it'll be tucked away in Uther's safe, until it's shipped off to New York."

"Do you think we'll be able to clean that inscription, well enough to read it, Gaius?" Merlin whispered. "I'd hate to damage the pigments."

Gaius shrugged and uttered one of his favorite phrases, "Only time will tell," before patting Merlin on the shoulder and shoving him gently in Arthur's general direction. "I think you two had better get a move on, before Uther decides to analyze the entire manuscript and asks for your opinions."

Arthur gave his Head of Conservation a grateful look. "Right," he said, catching Merlin's eye and then looking meaningfully at the door. "It's mid-afternoon already. And why the hell has Morgana disappeared?"

Hunith had been chatting happily with Elaine, but now she stepped close to Merlin and put an arm round his shoulders.

"It was lovely, darling, all of it," she said warmly, squeezing his shoulder and blinking a little. "A wonderful, wonderful day. I'm so happy for you. We'll see each other again before you go back to New York, won't we?"

"Of course," replied Merlin, reaching for her hand and squeezing in his turn. "We're meant to have lunch the day after tomorrow, aren't we?" His other hand involuntarily went to the front of his sweater, where he could feel the shape of the dragon pendant beneath the thin wool, pressed against his skin.

Hunith went to Arthur and kissed him on the cheek; he took her hand and returned the gesture. Trying to catch Merlin's eye for the second time, he murmured, "I think we should leave now, before something happens to delay us even further. Don't you agree?"

Merlin looked at him and then looked away, but a little warm color came into his pale cheeks, and he mumbled, "Oh, alright, then," and hunted about the room for his jacket.

'I understand we're at the same hotel," Mr Fisher-King said as Arthur marched determinedly towards the door. "Charming place, really. Perhaps we'll see each other at breakfast—" Then he caught himself, with the realization that this would be _rather unlikely_, given the circumstances, and smiled a little self-deprecatingly. "Before you go back to the Institute, I'll be interested in hearing your opinion on the condition of the manuscript's painted scenes."

To Merlin's immense relief, Elaine then crossed the room and announced, in a loud and clear voice, that it was time to let the boys go to their hotel for some _rest_.

Arthur gave his junior conservator an ironic look, but he turned to his father and held out his hand. Uther cleared his throat and thumped Arthur on the shoulder before pulling his son into an awkward hug. Arthur returned the embrace, looking almost as astonished as he no doubt felt.

"Merlin," said Uther quietly as Merlin turned to follow Arthur from the room. "Before you leave…a word."

"Sir?" said Merlin courteously, a little uncertain as to how to address him. "Sir Uther" seemed too formal; they were now, after all, more or less related by law. "Uther" was definitely too informal, but "Mr Pendragon," which was what Merlin had been accustomed to calling him at the Institute, didn't sound right either.

And there wasn't any way Merlin was going to call him "Dad."

The senior Pendragon coughed, and Merlin was astounded to see that something very like tears seemed to be lurking in Uther's stony eyes.

Uther appeared to be searching for words, but words were obviously eluding him. Then he reached out and placed the tips of his fingers lightly on Merlin's upper arm.

"Look after him," he said quietly, and then walked past Merlin and out to the front door, where his wife, Merlin's mother, Gaius, and a solemn-eyed Mordred were waiting to see them off.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Nothing was ever easy when Morgana was involved, Arthur realized. If he had thought that he and Merlin were about to make a clean getaway, he was now rudely shaken out of that belief. The moment the two of them stepped through the front door, they were pelted with a shower of rice, and their ears were assaulted with shouts and laughter from their Institute colleagues, who had been waiting outside on the pavement (who knows for how long, but some of them looked to be well-fortified with hipflasks of God knows what) for them to emerge. Morgana, naturally, was in the vanguard; she must, he realized ruefully, have slipped out of the house to rally the troops.

"Aaagh!" said Merlin as some of the hard little grains went down the back of his neck, beneath his sweater.

"You're a bloody nuisance, Morgana," Arthur expostulated, but he couldn't keep a crooked little grin from his face at the sight of his museum staff, giggling uncontrollably as they emptied the small sacks of rice Morgana had given them in their pre-signing gift bags.

"Thank you, children," he said aloud, raising his hands as though in benediction. "I'll remember this little display the next time I'm asked about the refinement and professionalism of my curators and conservators. I'll see all of you back in New York."

He then gripped Merlin's wrist and made a run for the hired car that was, thankfully, waiting at the curb.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The website for the Caerleon, which Merlin had located online, described the establishment as "a small jewel-box of a hotel on a quiet street." The building was handsome and unpretentious; it looked like a neoclassical townhouse, only wider, and the street was indeed narrow and quiet, with no bustling shops or restaurants in view.

In spite of their intention to arrive before evening, by the time he and Arthur stood on the pavement in front of the entrance, it was already growing dark. After practically fleeing from the Belgravia house, they had gotten out of the car a few streets away from the hotel, because Arthur declared himself to be starving. They had found seats in a tiny neighborhood pub, where Arthur devoured a beefburger and Merlin (who was not even remotely hungry) nibbled on the accompanying chips. After this, they had made their way on foot to the Caerleon, locating it after only two wrong turns, which Arthur naturally blamed on his junior conservator.

Merlin surveyed the hotel's handsome façade with approval, until Arthur tapped him on the shoulder.

"_Mer_lin," he said gruffly, with just a hint of impatience, and Merlin smiled at the old, familiar emphasis on the first syllable of his name.

"Sorry," he responded, in tones of such fake submission that Arthur had to repress a snort of laughter. They made their way to the front desk, where Arthur gave his name, signed the hotel register, and was informed that their luggage, sent over earlier, was waiting in their room. He then handed one of the room keys to Merlin, who was standing beside him, looking—all of a sudden—uncharacteristically tentative, perhaps even a little melancholy.

The night before he had seen Merlin, his Merlin, cry, and the emotion that had filled him at that instant had been overwhelming. He had wanted to curl himself around that thin, angular body, warm him, hold him close, tell him everything would be alright, protect him against anything in the world that might hurt him, threaten him, make him unhappy.

In short, he had _never_ _been such a girl_ in his entire life.

"Come on then, _Mer_lin," he now said briskly as his junior conservator hesitated at the front desk, fumbling with the key card. Taking him neatly by the arm, Arthur led him to the lift and pushed the appropriate button.

"I suppose you booked a palatial room," Merlin mumbled as they exited the lift and set off down the cream-colored hallway.

"No, I didn't," Arthur replied absently, beginning to feel anticipation build. Oh, to feel that silky skin beneath his hands, feast after famine! "I haven't seen it. I don't think it's large or palatial at all, just well-appointed, as they say."

"If you dare try to carry me over the threshhold," Merlin said grimly, "I'll make you sorry." But his eyes were smiling as he spoke, and his lips were quivering with the effort he was making not to grin. When they reached their door, Arthur unlocked it, and stepped to the side with exaggerated courtesy, bowing slightly and gesturing with a sweeping arm, to allow Merlin to enter first.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was a bowl of roses on the circular table near the window, another bowl filled with fresh fruit, and a silver wine cooler within which a bottle of champagne rested in a little mound of ice. Arthur took one look outside into the dark London night and then drew the curtains, shutting them into their warm, softly lit cocoon of a room, in which the wide bed with its white coverlet took up a great deal of space. Then he opened the champagne, poured two glasses half-full, and handed one to Merlin.

Merlin sipped self-consciously, fidgeting a little as he often did when he was uncertain what to do next. For a moment Arthur felt tempted to laugh; it wasn't as if they had never gone to bed together before...they had been intimate hundreds of times by his count, and had never gotten tired of it, or taken their remarkable physical connection for granted. He had listened to married friends ruefully joke about how the spontaneity and fire had gone out of their sex lives, and how familiarity and "family" affection had taken the place of lust. Their pronouncements made little impact on him, though, because he knew that the tantalising blend of innocence and seductiveness, the oddly virginal beauty and clever, intuitive touch that were the hallmarks of Merlin's physical appeal would never cease to hold him in thrall. He had never known anyone who could read him so well…and yet be so alluringly clueless about the effect his own waiflike form, _beguiling_ awkwardness, and coltish charm could have on people. Merlin was _his_ for the rest of his life, and he would never stop desiring him, with the ferocious, protective, possessive passion he had felt even before the first time they had lain in each other's embrace.

Now that they were alone and face to face, they suddenly found themselves tongue tied and unexpectedly shy.

Arthur took a step closer to Merlin and then stood still, about an arm's length away, surveying the changing expressions that flitted rapidly across his junior conservator's...no, his partner's face. He could see affection, desire, nervousness, and faint embarrassment follow one after another, and wondered if the same emotions were visible in his own eyes.

"Do you remember the first time I kissed you?" he asked abruptly, and watched as Merlin's cheeks and the tips of his ears turned a charming shade of pink.

"I do, yes," Merlin said stoutly, although Arthur had a sense that he was trembling. "Erm, in that hotel room in Santa Barbara? I hadn't...I'd never..." His voice trailed off into silence, and he gave Arthur a look he'd never seen on Merlin's face before, one of genuine supplication.

"Merlin, please," Arthur murmured, coming a little nearer. "Don't say you're frightened of me, not after all this time, not now." He reached out and very delicately traced the singing lines of those cheekbones with his fingers, the seam of those full, pink lips, the outer edge of one of those outrageous ears. Then he put his hands on Merlin's arms and felt that he was, indeed, trembling.

The sound of a distant bell tolling the hour jolted them both out of their intense contemplation of each other, and Merlin smiled a little sheepishly as he began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.

"No," Arthur said quietly. "Let me." Merlin's hands fell to his sides and Arthur reached out and began to unfasten the row of buttons, working slowly and carefully, mindful of Merlin's past accusations of haste, and the memory of buttons from so many of Merlin's shirts rolling across the floor of their New York flat.

Once all the buttons had been undone, he stepped closer, pulling the shirt open but not removing it. He rested his hands lightly on that slender, pliant waist, and heard Merlin give a little sigh, felt him shift almost impatiently. He himself was as eager as he had ever been, even more so than he had been as a hot-blooded teen, but he wasn't going to give in to the impulse to shove Merlin on the bed and tear his clothes off. Instead, ignoring the ache and tension in his groin, he pressed his mouth carefully to the little hollows above Merlin's collarbones, and the underside of his jaw, fingertips stroking over that pale throat, ever so lightly. Their foreheads bumped, and Arthur caught Merlin's mouth, just a slight brushing, barely a kiss, before drawing back, but a faint sound came from between those pillowy lips, and Merlin swayed against him. His slim, conservator's fingers grasped at Arthur's own, still-buttoned shirt, opening the collar and tugging the hem out of his trouser waistband with sudden haste.

"Merlin, we've all night," Arthur whispered, pulling Merlin's hands away, but keeping his own lightly clasped around Merlin's wrists. He would be gentle, oh, he would be gentle...at first. He would take his slow, sweet time with Merlin. He would...

Merlin gave a sudden start, and it was only then that Arthur became aware that there was a soft, persistent knocking at the door. A moment later, the knocking grew louder, and a hesitant voice could be heard from the other side. "Mr. Pendragon? Oh Mr Pendragon, sir? Sir? I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I must speak with you."

* * *

**Only two minor quotes, from Series 1 and 2.**


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: Love, Interrupted**

There was another flurry of knocks, slightly louder this time, and Arthur sighed gustily with annoyance. Merlin, staring wide-eyed at the door, drew back slightly, letting Arthur's hands slip from his waist.

"Who the hell could it be at this hour?" his Assistant Director hissed, and Merlin gave a nervous cough.

"Arthur, it's hardly late, barely dark outside…you can't suppose the hotel staff knows we just, erm, got _unionized_."

Arthur gave an abrupt snort of laughter at Merlin's deliberate misuse of the word, and walked to the door, pulling it open so rapidly that the dark-suited, middle-aged man outside nearly stumbled into the room.

"Yes?" he said quietly, trying to keep the edge of irritation out of his voice. "Is there a problem?"

Behind him, Merlin was muttering, "Partnered? _Partnerized_? Civil unioned? _Civilised_?" in what was probably an attempt to humor him.

"Mr Pendragon?" replied the dark-suited man, clearly flustered. "Forgive me—I'm the Manager's assistant, and he asked me to speak to you about…" His voice trailed away with embarrassment as he looked from Arthur, standing in the doorway with his collar open and shirttail halfway out of his trouser waistband, to Merlin, on the other side of the room, shirt unbuttoned and pulled open, his hair rumpled and sticking out in all directions above his brow.

"Yes?" Arthur said again, a little less tersely. If anything, he felt rather sorry for the poor man, through no fault of his own face to face with what was clearly the beginning stage of an erotic situation.

The Manager's assistant cleared his throat. "Your pardon for disturbing you—it's just that there's a guest here who's requested your, uh, aid," he said, stammering and turning red. "A Mr Fisher-King, sir. In Room 319. You're acquainted with the gentleman, I believe, sir?"

"Good lord!" Arthur exploded. "Old Pell—what could he be _thinking_?"

"He's…he's being looked after downstairs, sir," said the Manager's assistant, in whose face intense embarrassment and anxiety appeared to be fighting a battle. "One of our concierge personnel found him in the hallway, with evidence of, um, an injury to the head of some sort." His voice had dropped noticeably; surely the last thing he wanted was to let any other hotel visitors know of an unpleasant incident on the premises.

"What!" said Arthur blankly, narrowing his eyes. "He's hurt?"

"Well, yes, sir. We have an in-house doctor's aid, who's seeing to him now. But he asked to speak with you, before they take him to hospital."

"To hospital—well, I'm at your disposal," Arthur muttered, casting a regretful look back into the room with its dimmed lights, champagne, enormous bed, and Merlin. "What could have happened to him? I hope not a stroke, or a heart attack."

"I'll come with you," Merlin offered immediately, buttoning his shirt, and Arthur made no reply, simply nodding curtly. But as they followed the Manager's assistant down the hall, and then down a flight of stairs, he gave his junior conservator an apologetic look.

"I don't like the sound of this," he said quietly, reaching out to touch Merlin lightly on the wrist, behind the assistant's back. "Pell's always been strong, for a man of his age, no matter that he looks so frail. No real health issues except for his old injury, but—"

"In here, sir," said the Manager's assistant, veering towards a door marked _Private_. "If you and your…" He looked at Merlin and then away.

"My partner," Arthur said brusquely. "Mr Emrys."

Clearly relieved at not having made some sort of social gaffe, the Manager's assistant mumbled something polite in Merlin's direction and vanished.

As they stepped inside the room, they saw Pelles Fisher-King seated on a chair, patting cautiously at a streak of blood on the side of his face, as a young woman in a white coat inspected the crown of his head.

"Ah, Arthur," Mr Fisher-King said faintly, with a smile of gratitude. "And Merlin. Thank you for coming to see me…I'm so sorry I had to, uh, disturb you."

Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Pell, for pity's sake. What's happened to you? Did you fall and hit your head?"

Mr Fisher-King looked indignant. "No, I did not. I should say not." He then gripped Arthur's hand with sudden urgency. "The documents—he was after the documents."

"The documents?" Arthur said questioningly. "You've lost me, Pell. _He_, what he? What are you—"

"The documents, the documents!" said Mr Fisher-King a little incoherently, wincing as the white-coated young woman dabbed something on his head. "I told you about them, my boy. The eighteenth-century bill of sale, the nineteenth-century sketches of the paintings, and notes by a previous owner. I have them here, in my hotel room."

"Oh!" Merlin interjected, speaking up for the first time. "Somebody tried to _steal_ them from your room?"

"I can't think of any other reason why a person should want to hit me over the head," Mr Fisher-King replied with a touch of asperity. "I've been trying to tell this nice young lady that the hotel must send a security guard or the police to check my room. Sharpish."

"We've rung the police, sir," said the white-coated young woman, soothingly. "They should be here at any moment."

"I'll go have a look," Arthur murmured. "Don't worry, Pell. We'll see to it that your papers are safe."

"Yes, let him look," Mr Fisher-King said, insistently, as a burly young man wearing a badge—from Hotel Security, Merlin guessed—appeared in the doorway. "He's Uther Pendragon's son, he's from a museum; he'll know how to identify the things I'm talking about. They're in a leather portfolio with some other papers, in a case under the bed, Arthur."

Arthur was out the door and striding down the hall seconds later, followed by the security guard, with Merlin just behind them. He had blinked when Pelles Fisher-King identified him as Uther's son ("Now somebody will notify the press," he grumbled under his breath to Merlin), but doubted that any gossip-hounds in tabloid journalism (American or British) would be interested in something as dull as document theft—unless it involved the royal family, the Kardashians, or photos of himself, Merlin, _and the burglar_, stark raving naked.

Mr Fisher-King's door was closed but unlocked, and the room was dark. Arthur stepped inside, fumbling at the wall for the light switch. Everyone blinked as the light flashed on, and the young man from security stepped into the chamber.

There was an unexpected explosion of motion, as a dark-clad figure burst from behind the wardrobe, completely bowling over the startled Security man, and raced for the door. Arthur, who had moved automatically to block his exit, found the man pounding straight towards him, a fist already swinging in the direction of his face.

Arthur ducked sideways, and the fist that would have slammed into his nose connected with his jaw, hard but not hard enough to render him unconscious. His head snapped back and he staggered at the impact, but turned as the man slid past him, reaching out to grab the back of his shirt before he could either flee or turn to attack. It was then that his assailant suddenly—and quite unexpectedly—crashed to the floor, as Merlin tackled him with a scrambling, flying leap and brought him down.

Arthur's eyes went wide with astonishment, but he and the man from hotel security hastened to secure the fallen burglar—he knew perfectly well that there was no way Merlin was going to be able to hold him down for more than a few seconds, even though he had spread his thin body over as much of the struggling, dark-clad mystery man as he could. Merlin's eyes were blazing; he was flushed with anger, and Arthur felt an instant glow of warmth at the thought that Merlin would risk his own safety, without a second thought, to safeguard his own.

"Are you alright?" panted Merlin, releasing his hold on the burglar, who was muttering furiously into the carpet. "Are you hurt, Arthur?"

"You idiot!" Arthur replied under his breath with a mixture of exasperation, love, and gratitude. "Alright then, let's see who this is," he continued in a normal voice as he deftly flipped their grunting, twisting captive over onto his back and pulled off what looked like a black ski mask.

"Bloody hell…" he then said, nearly as incoherent with surprise as Mr Fisher-King had been earlier. "It's one of ours. I mean, used to be. It's Edwin."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I don't understand," Arthur said for what seemed like the tenth time that evening. "What would he gain? Why did he do it?"

"Buggered if I know," mumbled his junior conservator, brow furrowed, and Arthur felt the corner of his mouth twitch, because Merlin only swore when he was very tired, very out of sorts, or was making a joke.

It was past midnight, and they were sitting in a hospital waiting room, waiting to see Pelles Fisher-King. They had come from the police station, where they had spent close to half an hour waiting around until somebody took their statements. Edwin had had his rights explained to him by the custody officer, before being hustled away to be questioned. He had slunk off between two beefy policemen looking decidedly put upon, muttering something about needing to see his solicitor, as he had been badly roughed up by Arthur Pendragon.

"I barely touched him, for God's sake!" Arthur protested. "I only stopped him from getting away." But it was obvious that nobody at the station was taking Edwin's babblings very seriously, as he was clearly unhurt and Arthur was sporting an impressive bruise on his jaw. Not to mention that the hotel security man had given a statement, as a witness to the fact that Edwin had struck first.

"Why did you try to rob Pelles Fisher-King?" Arthur had asked Edwin whilst they were still in the hotel, before the police arrived to take him away. "What could you possibly gain by it? He had no works of art in his room, only some papers. And to strike an old man—"

"Didn't hit him hard," Edwin had said in a sour voice. "He knocked against the wardrobe when he fell. Didn't want to hurt him."

"Then _why_—?" Arthur repeated, his hands balling into fists at the thought of poor old Pell. He felt completely at sea. He remembered this fellow, Edwin, from the Institute, although he had given notice and quit his job in the gift shop's stockroom earlier that year. He recalled remarking on the man's departure to Gaius, saying that Edwin had left because he had been promised a job as Salesperson at the Getty Museum in California.*

"Why, Edwin?" he said again, sharply.

Edwin had simply muttered darkly about how "none of this was my idea," and how he refused to be "the fall guy" and take the heat for some "stupid old git with delusions of grandeur"—statements that that left Arthur and Merlin exchanging looks of total confusion.

"Who's he talking about?" Arthur asked himself aloud. They had been knocking back cups of coffee, both at the station and the hospital, to keep themselves alert, and now he was reaching for his fourth. "What old git? Surely not Pell. Who, then?"

Merlin shrugged in complete bewilderment. "Somebody he was working for?"

Their bewilderment had been compounded when the news came in that there had been an attempted burglary at the Belgravia home of Sir Uther Pendragon, at roughly the same time as the attack on Pelles Fisher-King.

Edwin had not leveled any formal accusation at Arthur for "roughing him up," and he and Merlin had been allowed to leave, after signing their statements. ("That's the second document I've had to sign today," sighed Arthur. "But I can't say this one's given me any pleasure.") At the hospital, they managed to locate Mr Fisher-King's room, and waited for what seemed an interminable amount of time before they were permitted to speak to him.

"Your papers are intact, and they're at the hotel," Arthur told him. "It was some nit who used to work for us who tried to steal them. I can't think why."

"Neither can I," whispered Pelles Fisher-King, puzzled. "I suppose they have some value, but only as they relate to the fifteenth-century manuscript. Which is safe and sound with your father."

A policeman then requested a few moments to ask some question of the patient, and Arthur and Merlin retired to the hallway.

"I'll just have one last word with him, before we go," Arthur told Merlin, rubbing at his eyes, which were beginning to redden. "Once the officer's gone."

After Arthur re-entered the hospital room, Merlin wandered gloomily down the hall, in search of a magazine to read, or a food machine, or something to help keep himself awake. What he did find was more coffee, which he carried back to the uncomfortable metal chair just outside Mr Fisher-King's door. He was sipping the horrible brew, practicing his disappearing coin trick—one he had taught Mordred some time ago—with his free hand, and wondering if the evening (which was now morning) could get any worse, when Uther Pendragon barreled through the double doors at the end of the sterile white hallway.

"Oh," said Merlin faintly, realizing that things certainly could and now probably would get worse.

"Ah, Merlin," said Uther instantly and sounding almost grateful. "Thank God. Nobody downstairs would tell me anything. Is Arthur—is he alright?"

"He's fine," Merlin hastened to reassure him. "Just some bruises. If it hadn't been for him, that fellow would have got away."

Uther looked relieved. "I couldn't believe when I heard…were you there?"

"Yes, Merlin was there," Arthur said, emerging from Mr Fisher-King's room. "He actually _tackled_ the man when he thought I was in danger of being hurt."

The senior Pendragon rested a heavy hand on Merlin's shoulder for a brief moment, patting it twice, before fastening the hand on Arthur's upper arm. "Are you certain you're not injured?" His eyes went to the angry red mark on Arthur's jaw, which was now well on the way to turning purple.

"Not hurt, just exhausted," his son replied soberly. "What with one thing and another. We spoke with the police. We went to the station and gave statements. Then we came here, to check on poor old Pell. He's been shaken up, but he's going to be fine—they stitched up his head, and he's slept a little. Now he's awake, and talking to a police officer."

"I'll see him, before he goes back to sleep," Uther murmured.

"And then we got word about your break-in…it's hard to believe all of this. Somebody planned it, obviously, but who? And what for?"

"An art theft ring?" Uther said, his voice loud with frustration, but a passing doctor raised a finger to his lips and asked them, in a loud whisper, not to wake the patients.

"For some reason, I don't think it's that simple," his son replied, gingerly fingering his jaw and chin. "And those documents of Pell's don't exactly qualify as _art_."

"And the burglar used to _work_ for us?" Uther continued with near-disbelief. "Why the devil…? It would have made more sense, from a criminal standpoint, if he had tried to steal a work of _art_ when he was employed at the Institute."

"That's what I meant when I said I don't think it's that simple," Arthur said. "Well, perhaps we'll hear something new before long—" He stopped talking abruptly and gave a tremendous yawn. "An officer at the police station told us they'd be talking to you tomorrow—I mean today—at Belgrave Square, and they asked us to join you." He gave another massive yawn and looked hopefully into his nearly empty coffee cup.

It was then that Uther seemed to realize that the sky beyond the corridor's windows had lightened, and everything outside was clearly visible. He glanced at his wristwatch and bit his lip.

"Good lord," he said, turning towards them but not looking either of them in the face, shifting from one foot to another, awkwardly. "It seems you've been up all night with this mess. I would have come sooner…And this was your…" He then went a little red, and had the grace to look shamefaced.

"Not exactly what I had envisioned for last night," Arthur said quietly to Merlin, so that his father could not hear. "But nobody can say it wasn't exciting." He then smiled as Merlin rolled his eyes and chuckled feebly.

Aloud, he said only, "Now that you're here, Father, if you'd kindly give our good wishes to Pell. We'll need a few hours of sleep before we meet with the police in Belgrave Square this afternoon."

"That's meant to be at four, is it?" Uther said, fumbling in his pocket for his electronic planner, and then staring at it, but Arthur was already pulling Merlin towards the doors at the end of the hall. By the time the senior Pendragon raised his head, he found himself alone in the corridor, save for a bright-eyed young doctor who had just begun his shift, and a very sleepy orderly.

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Outside the hospital, Arthur commandeered a taxi, and gave the address of their hotel as Merlin slid in beside him. They jolted along in silence for a while, neither even trying to suppress their yawns. As extreme fatigue tended to make Merlin giddy, and Arthur testy, they wisely kept silent until Merlin's nodding head briefly came to rest against his Assistant Director.

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said balefully, glaring as Merlin sat up again. "Don't you dare fall asleep on me, and drool all over my shoulder."

"I don't drool," Merlin replied, yawning. "You do. Only a little…sometimes," he added, as Arthur continued to glare at him.

Merlin put a tentative hand out to touch the purpling bruise on the side of Arthur's face, fingers gentle, and Arthur stopped glaring. They exchanged rueful looks, and Arthur let his hand rest lightly on Merlin's thigh.

The cab lurched to a stop in front of the Caerleon, and Merlin, still yawning ferociously, climbed out, followed by his Assistant Director. They walked solemnly to the front desk to check for message; Arthur spoke briefly with the Manager, who was all nervous apologies, and announced that he would like a breakfast—no, two breakfasts—delivered at around two o'clock that afternoon. He and Merlin managed to maintain their dignity until the lift doors had closed behind them, at which point they sagged against the walls of the tiny space until it deposited them at their floor. How they got through the door of their room without one of them collapsing seemed to them to be a miracle.

Somebody must have partly closed the drapes and replenished the wine cooler, but the last thing either of them needed at the moment was a drink. They had come, as well, to the sorry realization that what they needed more than anything was a good several hours of _sleep_.

Perhaps it was the fatigue that was weakening his brain, Arthur thought, a little crossly, but he didn't think he had ever seen anything as captivating as his fawnlike young conservator, his thin frame all angles and straight lines, almost insubstantial and otherworldly in the dimness of the room. His delicate pallor was offset by his white tee shirt and black jeans, his hair was a dark cap of smudgy points and spikes, and there were shadows beneath those blue eyes, over which his eyelids were drooping lower and lower with every passing moment.

For his part, Merlin peered sideways at his Assistant Director, who was stretching and grimacing unrestrainedly, like a weary athlete after a match of some sort. He watched with sleepy pleasure, seeing Arthur's dark gold lashes flutter over his flushed cheeks as he yawned. After two years spent in his company, Merlin was still periodically amazed by that remarkable beauty.

"I think I'll brush my teeth," he mumbled, rubbing both eyes with his fists. "And sleep until two. That'll give us time to get washed and dressed to meet with Inspector Whatsisname."

"You go first," Arthur responded wearily, gesturing in the general direction of the bathroom. "I hope none of _my_ teeth fall out when I brush them."

Merlin eyed his bruised jaw with a sleepy combination of concern and impish humor.

"People will be thinking we had very rough sex on our so-called wedding night."

"If you don't shut up and get a move on," Arthur growled, "I will perform extremely rough sex on you this instant."

Merlin gave a derisive snort as he headed into the bathroom, but the look he turned on Arthur before shutting the door was one of tenderness mixed with very drowsy ardor. When he staggered out, Arthur took his turn, emerging to find Merlin's clothes strewing the floor between the bathroom door and the bed, and Merlin sprawled under the bedclothes, heaving enormous sighs as he tried to wedge pillows behind his head to his satisfaction.

Arthur flung his own clothing towards a nearby chair (missing it) and climbed in, turning off the single bedside lamp. Merlin scooted over to make room for him—hardly necessary, since the bed was very wide and supremely comfortable. As profoundly tired as he felt, the very sight of those thin, elegant limbs and the smooth ivory of those narrow hips put Arthur into a state of arousal. He slid closer, and pressed his lips against Merlin's brow, and then, when Merlin turned sleepily in his arms, against his mouth, below his ear, and down the length of his neck.

"Arthur," Merlin whispered, eyes closed. "Your-ow! Those _teeth_!"

Quite forgetting the sharpness of his two pointed eyeteeth—although Merlin had pointed this out on numerous occasions—Arthur had nibbled on his junior conservator's throat, just where the pulse beat beneath the milky skin.

"Sorry," he murmured, a little contritely, although he was too tired to feel very apologetic. He then pulled Merlin so tightly against him that their hips and legs were mashed together.

"_Arthur_," Merlin said again, in mild protest, his voice muffled. He sounded so exhausted—half asleep, really—that Arthur made a valiant effort to quell his lust, holding Merlin gently against his chest and silently willing himself (with limited success) to _deflate_.

"Sorry," Merlin whispered in his turn, pressing his face against his Assistant Director's neck, breath ruffling the ends of his blond hair. "Tomorrow, Arthur…I promise."

* * *

**Arthur and Gaius discussed Edwin's departure from the Pendragon Institute in Chapter 19.**


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: Arthur and the 'Do Not Disturb' Sign**

When Arthur woke, a little after noon, the bedclothes were rumpled into a heap, and the place next to him was empty. As he sat up, rubbing his eyes, Merlin emerged from the bathroom in a fresh toweling robe, his hair wet and standing on end, looking alert and cheerful in spite of the bluish shadows of fatigue around his eyes.

"Look, they sent up some breakfast," he said, pointing to the table, where a massive silver tray bore a number of covered dishes. "All the things you like-bacon, sausages, toast, eggs, tomatoes. Loads of marmalade and butter and syrup. Juice. Coffee."

"And for you?" Arthur mumbled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair back from Merlin's pale forehead. If they hadn't promised to meet with the police, he would have pulled off that robe and eased Merlin down into the softness of the duvet. Lovemaking before breakfast always got his appetite going.

Beside which Merlin looked so appetising with his skin still damp and flushed from the heat of the shower, his hair close to his head, dark and shining with water, like an otter's pelt.

Not to mention that they were now legal partners, and had been for _more than twenty-four bloody hours_, and—appallingly—theyhadn't had even the slightest opportunity to have sex since acquiring this status. Patience had never been Arthur's strongest point, and his mind leaped ahead to the evening, when this police business hopefully would be done with. Did the Caerleon provide the usual 'Do Not Disturb' sign for their guests' use? Perhaps it was on the desk, next to the television remote?

"Cereal and fruit," Merlin said, and it took a moment for Arthur to remember what he was replying to.

His mouth felt fuzzy with sleep and too much coffee the day before. Grumbling, he heaved himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom, hoping Merlin hadn't used all the toothpaste.

"What time are we supposed to meet with that inspector?" he asked before reaching for his toothbrush. "And why does it have to be at Father's?"

"Because of the attempted break-in, of course," Merlin said patiently. "And we're to be there at four. That's what the sergeant, or detective, or whatever he was, said. Don't you remember?"

"I was asleep on my feet at that point," Arthur muttered, frowning. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be ready to dress. You can pretend to be a good little wifey and pour out my coffee whilst I'm in the shower."

He dodged the wadded up towel Merlin hurled at him, and closed the bathroom door to the sound of Merlin's shout of indignation.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Let's get one thing straight," Merlin said under his breath. "I am _not_ your little wifey."

Arthur guffawed so loudly that Uther turned his head and glanced at them both.

"I mean, let's make one thing _clear_," Merlin said, a little reproachfully, and Arthur coughed against the back of his hand.

Uther gave them a sharp look that said _this is really not the time for jokes_, and Arthur subsided, as Merlin assumed an expression of sublime innocence.

The police inspector also gave them a look. He had just checked over the entire residence (a fatiguing piece of work), and was trying to make Sir Uther understand why this had been necessary. He hadn't been present, the day before, when Edwin something or other was arrested, and now fervently wished he had paid closer attention to his superior's briefing on the members of the Pendragon family. The blond, athletic-looking bloke had been introduced as Uther Pendragon's son, but this thin, dark-haired, long-legged young man was his civil partner? His conservator? Whatever that was. He cleared his throat, and went on with his explanation. Yes, whoever wanted to break into the house had tried to get through the basement-kitchen window, where a latch was faulty. (Arthur winced and felt vaguely guilty for never having ordered it fixed.) He hadn't been able to fit through, had tried another window and smashed the glass in yet a third, but that was what set off the house alarm, chasing him away. Yes, he had left prints, the windowsills and glass had all been dusted for them, he had dropped a cigarette butt with his DNA on it, and it shouldn't be long before they identified him, if the proper information was available.

"Thank you, Inspector," Arthur said, when he finished speaking. "I'm confident your department will find the man, whoever he is. I've given my statement about Edwin, as have Merlin, Pelles Fisher-King, and the security person at the hotel. Please keep us informed. Now, Father, if you won't be needing us any longer…"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Their return to the Caerleon was rapid and uneventful, but at Reception they were stopped by the solemn desk clerk, who told them that Arthur needed to sign some papers about the unfortunate events of the night before. A young woman from the Manager's office would be bringing them out to him.

"This is too much," Arthur grumbled, as the desk clerk trotted off to find her. "It's one thing after another. It's like running a bloody gauntlet."

The young woman from the Manager's office was American. She was, as it turned out, the Manager's teenaged niece, spending a year in London and just starting work as a secretary-in-training at the hotel, with occasional night duty at the Reception desk if the regular clerk was ill or on holiday. She was tall, blonde, impressively curvaceous, and her voice held an unmistakable, but strangely charming twang that hinted at one of the outer boroughs of New York City, or possibly some part of Long Island. As she spoke, she managed to chew on a mouthful of gum with remarkable vigor and without missing a beat.

"Heard you helped out the old guy...I mean the elderly gentleman, last night. We're real grateful, ya know. But his room was a wreck."

An enormous pink gum bubble emerged from between her lips and Merlin stared at it, as though mesmerized.

"Yes," said Arthur with a straight face. "We were happy to be of assistance."

"I saw that dude once before, the burglar. He's been hanging out on the block, ya know, just chillin'. He was kinda weird. I knew something was funny about him."

"Very funny," replied Merlin, also straight-faced, but Arthur could see a muscle in his cheek twitching with the urge to laugh.

More vigorous chewing. "I figured something screwy was going on last night."

"Nothing screwy at all, I'm sorry to say," Arthur announced in a serious voice. Behind him, he could almost feel Merlin quaking and trembling with suppressed mirth.

"Seeing the sights tonight?" the Manager's niece continued cheerfully. Another massive bubble emerged from her pink-frosted lips, and Arthur could see the corners of Merlin's mouth wobbling dangerously. "Or if you wanna swim, or exercise, we have free passes to the health and sports club at the end of the street."

"No sights,' Arthur said. "I used to live in London. But a few hours of really strenuous exercise sounds just about right."

There was a stifled "Hpppp!" from Merlin, and Arthur turned to see his junior conservator heading for the lift, cheeks puffed out and eyes reddening with his attempt to hold back his laughter.

"Do I need to sign anything else?" Arthur continued, pushing the papers back across the desk. "I've been doing nothing but sign things for the past two days." He heard the soft hiss of the lift door closing behind Merlin, and remembered something he had meant to ask earlier. "Oh, and do you have such a thing as a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. I didn't find one in the room, and I'd probably like to have a lie-in, tomorrow."

"Yeah, sure," said the Manager's niece, locating one and pushing it across the desk. "I mean, of course, sir." She was staring at him with profound interest, eyes roving from his fair hair to his broad shoulders. Arthur had the feeling that only her hotel training (which was clearly in the _very_ early stages) was preventing her from looking further south.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two minutes later, he was in the lift, flipping the key card to the room between the fingers of his left hand. This gave him the opportunity to look at the gold ring on his third finger; his married friends might joke that this was the miniature symbol of a ball and chain, or a pair of manacles, but he knew better.

And the thought of being manacled to Merlin for life actually made him smile. Although he'd be damned if he ever allowed Merlin to have an inkling of this.

As he made his way down the carpeted hallway to their room, he felt energized again, relieved that old Pelles was out of danger, that the whole matter had been more or less resolved, and that the ringleader (or ringleaders) would soon be identified and arrested. He was eager to return to the quiet and comfort of his room, and to Merlin's reassuring presence and long, supple body. Thoughts of that enormous bed, Merlin's creamy skin, and Merlin twisting and arching against him as he moaned into his mouth, assailed him as he dealt with the key.

After all, they had had to postpone their "wedding night," and Arthur was in no mood to put things off any longer.

The room was peaceful, with its air of quiet, understated luxury, and as soothing to the mind—lights a little dimmed, flowers and fresh fruit on the round table, along with the requisite silver ice bucket and bottle of champagne—as it had been the night before. The faint sounds of Merlin brushing his teeth and splashing at the sink in the bathroom reached Arthur's ears as he dropped his wallet, key card, and watch on the bedside table, and checked to see that certain necessaries were stowed in its drawer.

He also hastened to hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of their door, silently vowing to murder anyone who chose to ignore it.

After taking his turn in the bathroom, brushing his teeth carefully so as not to irritate his jaw, Arthur stepped out to find Merlin standing by the window, twisting the hem of his shirt between his fingers and looking at him from the corner of his eye in that infuriatingly appealing way he had, the one that always got Arthur's pulse racing. Then he ducked his head, staring at the floor, so Arthur put out a hand and lifted his chin, running his thumb over the soft fullness of those lips.

"You," he said, hearing his own voice go husky. "What did you think you were doing, _Mer_lin, playing the big, fearless hero and knocking that stupid nit, Edwin, to the floor last night. He could have hurt you."

"He hurt _you_," said Merlin with a touch of defiance, raising his eyes to meet Arthur's, and then backing away when Arthur released him.

"Doesn't hurt a bit," Arthur said with conviction, clenching his jaw experimentally. He was lying, but it didn't hurt as much as it had earlier; the tenderness and pain had faded away to a dull ache. "Now—where was I?"

His junior conservator had drawn away to just beyond his reach.

"Come here," Arthur said sternly, moving back from the window and taking two steps to the bed. "Don't be a tease."

"Stop telling me what to do, then," Merlin replied with a faint smile. "_You _come to _me_."

Arthur gave a loud and exaggerated sigh before walking to Merlin and putting his arms round his waist. Merlin leaned their foreheads together and put his own arms around Arthur's neck. They kissed as cautiously as they had on their very first night together, in Santa Barbara, mouths all gentle and explorative, and Arthur tightened his embrace a little, his palms slowly running the length of that angular body, as Merlin did the same to him.

"Merlin," he whispered, putting one hand into that sable hair, and then kissing him again very softly, drawing his fingertips over that high, beautifully modeled brow beneath the short, jagged fringe, those cheekbones and the hollows beneath them, the long line of Merlin's slender nose, down over the pale column of his throat to where his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. "_Mine_." He could feel Merlin smile at the familiar word, before kissing him back.

By the time they were in bed, skin against skin, they were both nearly delirious with anticipation and need; they wanted to take their time, go slowly, gradually, but this was beginning to seem impossible. "Oh," said Merlin, muffled, into Arthur's hair. "Oh. _Oh_," he repeated as Arthur slid a hand over his hip; his own conservator's fingers were doing something Arthur could only describe as magical. Arthur raised his head just a little and saw that Merlin's eyes were closed, cheeks brilliantly flushed, lips parted.

"Arthur," whispered Merlin urgently, panting, and Arthur pulled him closer, pushing towards him, against him, into him, strong hands clamped tightly on that narrow waist, partially silencing those pleading, breathy sounds with a deep, ferocious kiss. Merlin's whole body lifted against him, and Arthur couldn't really think properly, he could only _feel_; but with what little thought remained, it occurred to him that he had never before, in all his life, felt this blissful.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur woke quite early—for someone who had spent hours in strenuous activity—and lay still with his eyes closed, feeling sunlight warm on his face (had he really forgotten to close the drapes?) and thinking back over what Morgana would no doubt call the consummation of his and Merlin's "wedding" vow.

He closed his eyes and let his mind rove back over how, instead of frantically ripping off each other's clothes with ardent moans, like stereotypical newlyweds, they had faced each other quietly and undressed in silence. How, once in bed, they had simply pressed themselves together, from shoulder to knee, kissing like a pair of moonstruck teenagers before Arthur, driven to an almost frantic state by Merlin's clever hands, rolled uppermost and held him down—gently—breathing softly into his ear in little, warm puffs. How Merlin had quivered, and cried out like a virgin, his head thrown back, fingers digging into Arthur's shoulders, his voice cracking as he gasped out, "_Arthur, Arthur_." How their initial frenzy had settled into slow, gentle, rhythmic movements, rocking their hips easily with sweetly intertwined limbs, before returning to a frenzy of motion, heat, intensity, and blinding sensation, in which they strained against one another, every inch of skin sensitized, before losing themselves in the pleasure of their release.

Less than an hour later, lying in each other's arms in a kind of drowsy stupor, they had found themselves ravenous, and had gotten out of bed to check the contents of the room's mini-fridge. Merlin unearthed the slices of wedding cake, which they had stowed there when they first arrived and before the awful debacle of poor Pelles Fisher-King and the almost-stolen documents. After washing a bit and putting on the hotel toweling robes, they had set about devouring the leftover cake, using their hands, with paper napkins instead of plates. Merlin had gotten a blob of icing on his chin, Arthur had rolled his eyes with faked annoyance and licked it away, and from then on things became very messy, with fingers leaving sticky, sugary spots all over—that had to be licked off—and they had finally given up on eating anything else and simply gone back to bed.

Perhaps it was all that sugar icing that gave Merlin his second wind, because after a while he had pushed Arthur back onto the pillows and climbed on top, mastering him with slow, careful kisses, palms firm on his shoulders, to hold him flat, teeth nipping at Arthur's neck and the line of his jaw, his knees nudging Arthur's knees apart. And Arthur, lying supine beneath his warmth and his slight weight, had been quite pleased to let Merlin play with the dominant role, a thrill running the entire length of him when strong, slim-fingered hands gripped his wrists and pinned his own hands above his head. Merlin had then been surprisingly aggressive and energetic, not to mention demanding ("Yes Arthur, like _that_…")—quite rivaling Arthur in that respect—before they finally drifted off into sleep, sated and exhausted. The result of all this was that when Arthur woke, he felt nearly incandescent with joy and physical satisfaction; his senses were still alive with the memory of indescribable desire and a kind of pure ecstasy (if _that_ didn't sound cliché, he didn't know what did, but it was true), his limbs felt as weak as water, but he was, um, as sore as Merlin probably was.

He poked Merlin in the ribs to wake him up, and when that didn't work, ran the flat of his hand down from the center of his breastbone to the base of his stomach.

"Hey!" Merlin muttered without opening his eyes, flailing blindly at Arthur's hand.

"I'm famished," Arthur said in an aggrieved voice. "I need food."

When Merlin made no reply, simply burrowing into his pillow, Arthur tugged at his hair and then swatted him on the backside, hoping that he would have no grave objection to getting out of bed and retrieving breakfast when it arrived with the room service person. He would do it himself, except that he really _was_ rather sore…

"I hope you're not expecting me to get up and _walk_," Merlin said, as if he could read Arthur's mind. "I ache all over."

"You most certainly are getting up, you idiot," Arthur replied with as much briskness as he could muster, and then pulling himself gingerly into a sitting position. "Don't you want breakfast?"

"Breakfast?" said Merlin groggily. "After all that cake?"

"I forgot," Arthur muttered, playing absently with Merlin's hair. "You ate most of it. Ugh, I'm sticky with icing and…well. Hand over that phone, will you?"

Merlin handed it over obediently, and then sighed, leaning back against his Assistant Director, sighing again as Arthur wrapped one arm round his waist, using his free hand to manipulate the telephone receiver.

By the time breakfast arrived—Merlin went to the door to fetch it, as Arthur seemed unwilling to move (or perhaps incapable of moving)—it was past ten o'clock. The heavily loaded trays were deposited on the bed, and Merlin watched with well-concealed amusement as his Assistant Director proceeded to wolf down vast quantities of eggs and toast, bacon, braised tomatoes, sliced fruit, and juice. After drinking what looked to Merlin like three quarters of a pot of coffee, he leaned back against the pillows and croaked, "Now I feel halfway human again."

"A human Hoover," Merlin said. "What did you feel like before, if not human? A Klingon? A Wookie? An orc…?" but Arthur wasn't having any of that.

"You're the one who looks like a bloody Vulcan," he replied, reaching for a napkin. "Although the ears aren't quite right. And now I think I'll have a bath. A really long one."

"Don't you want to go out?" Merlin asked, cereal spoon halfway to his mouth, but Arthur eased himself out of bed and stood up.

"I'm not going anywhere in this sticky, grubby condition," he announced, marching into the bathroom. The shower—which they had used the previous morning—featured marble walls, gleaming fixtures, and sliding glass doors, but Arthur focused on the bathtub for the first time, and noticed that it was…certainly wide and deep and, _hmmm_, large enough for two.

"_Mer_lin!" he called, turning on the taps; he had to shout above the splashing of the water. "When you're finished with that rabbit's nosh you call food, you can come in here and help me wash my back."

"Helpless prat," Merlin shouted back, dropping his fruit knife with a clatter.

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The tub was just deep enough, and the water was very hot, and immensely relaxing. The Pendragon Institute's Assistant Director and junior conservator sat with their backs propped against opposite ends of the bath, their legs mixed up somewhere in the middle, breathing in the soothing steam.

"I suppose Gaius will want to have a look at Pell's documents as soon as possible," Merlin sighed, fumbling around for the soap, which was somewhere beneath their legs.

"Gaius?" replied Arthur, frowning. "_I_ need to look at them as soon as possible, and Morgana does as well, if she's really going to write an article about the fifteenth-century manuscript. Hand over the soap, please. Gods, this is a splendid tub."

"This is a splendid bath," replied Merlin. "Except when you try to scrub my face with your _foot_."

"My foot slipped," said Arthur with dignity. "I was trying to prop it on the edge of the bath." Merlin raised his eyebrows in disbelief and said nothing, but he shifted a little so that the edge of his own foot brushed against the inside of Arthur's thigh.

Arthur dropped the soap.

Merlin closed his eyes and smiled, thinking about Arthur's skin; how it was like warmed bronze in the light of the bedside lamp, but, in certain places, so soft beneath his hands and lips. He heard the catch in his own breath, and when he opened his eyes, saw that Arthur had sat up and slid towards him.

"Uth—your father said we should see the new exhibit at the National Gallery," Merlin said almost breathlessly, gripping the rim of the tub with both hands. He himself had no desire to go anywhere beyond the walls of their room, but duty was duty. "I don't know if you—"

"No, I do _not_ want to go to the National Gallery!" snapped Arthur, and pulled him chest to chest.

"Ow!" said Merlin as their hips, legs, and other parts collided smartly underwater. "Look out!" Bathwater and bubbles slopped out of the tub, spreading over the tiled floor, and Arthur laughed quietly into Merlin's ear. "The hotel maids are going to love you," Merlin said, but there was a sudden urgency in his look and his voice that made Arthur dizzy with the desire to kiss him. Some more. "Are you certain we shouldn't—"

"Shut up, will you, _Mer_lin," Arthur muttered as he hauled his junior conservator into his lap, more water sloshing noisily onto the tiles. "As soon as we finish…this, and get out of this tub, we're going back to bed."


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: A Herald of The New Age**

"You'll never guess," said Gaius dryly, but there was a peculiar look in his eye that told Merlin that whatever it was he couldn't guess, Gaius was going to be very pleased to relate.

Most of the Institute staffers already had flown back to New York, but the flight Gaius and Will were booked on had been cancelled, due to some mechanical problem. They had put their return off for another day, and Gaius had taken advantage of his long-standing friendship with Uther to show up, Will in tow, at the Belgravia house, just in time for tea. Arthur and Merlin, who had spent virtually all of the previous day in their hotel room, only going out once, briefly, to dine at a nearby restaurant, were sitting—almost sprawling—on the sofa when Elaine and Morgana ushered their Institute colleagues into the room. Will appropriated a comfortable, cushion-laden armchair, but Gaius disappeared into the study, where, Elaine told him, Uther was on the telephone with the police.

"I don't suppose we could have tea like the ancient Romans?" Merlin said quietly to Arthur as Elaine left the room to summon Mordred. "Lying down?"

"Ancient Romans didn't drink tea, _Mer_lin," replied his Assistant Director, rolling his eyes.

"I know _that_," Merlin said, rolling his own. "That's not what I meant…I meant I don't think I can sit up. I'm exhausted."

"Shhh!" murmured Arthur with a sharp glance at Morgana, who was hovering nearby and smirking unbearably. But he was also tired, and wished more than anything that he could have stayed in bed with Merlin for just one more day. After all, wasn't this supposed to be a honeymoon of sorts? Ever since waking up that morning, his face pressed against Merlin's hair, one arm round his waist, Merlin's warm back against his own warm front, he had been feeling particularly protective and possessive of his junior conservator. Perhaps it was in part because he spent close to fifteen minutes propped up on one elbow, simply watching him sleep, eyes fixed on that pale, finely-drawn face, cheeks and jaw faintly stubbled, those lips, those _ears_. He looked so childlike when he slept, a world away from the hot-eyed, silken-mouthed, passionate young man he had held in his arms the day before. Reminiscing had intensified Arthur's normal morning condition, and so, instead of letting the alarm clock do its work, he had switched it off and woken Merlin the way he enjoyed most, by—

There was a loud click of the study door as Gaius emerged, Uther hard on his heels, and entered the sitting room to announce, "You'll never guess!"

"We'll never guess what?" Arthur asked briskly, depositing a magazine on his lap out of necessity.

"Who was behind that hotel business, and the attempted break-in here, that's what," Gaius went on, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "Edwin's been talking like mad to the authorities. It seems he doesn't want to take the blame for plotting the thing, although he can't deny he was involved in the _doing_ of it. How's Pelles, by the way?"

"He's doing well," Morgana said from the other side of the room. "He rang us this morning; they're releasing him from hospital today. I told him to forget about the hotel and stay here. Mum can look after him better than the hotel staff can."

"Well, who was behind the break-ins, then?" Arthur asked, a little impatiently. "And why are the police telling you and Father all about it."

"There are certain things they can't tell us, naturally. But they wanted to ask Uther some questions about the ringleader, the wretched fellow."

Gaius was rubbing his hands with what looked like boyish glee, wisps of his silver-white hair were awry as though he pulled at them absent-mindedly, and he resembled nothing less than an elderly baby who had just been presented with its favorite treat. Both Merlin and Will exchanged glances of surprise and puzzled amusement behind their Department Head's back.

"Well, who the hell _was_ it then?" snapped Arthur, patience wearing thin. "Father, you tell us, if Gaius won't."

Uther opened his mouth to tell, but Gaius beat him to the punch. "It was _Aredian_."

Mouths fell open round the room. "What?" said Arthur weakly, hardly able to believe his ears. "Aredian? Why in blazes would he want to do such a thing? What would he want with some documents and sketches that are only two hundred years old?"

"We'll be finding out soon, no doubt, but in the meantime, they're looking for him."

"I never liked that man," Morgana said, frowning. "He's such a toad."

Remembering his own encounters with Aredian,* Merlin was inclined to agree, but he kept silent.

"Well, who tried to break into this house, then?" Arthur asked, a little shaken. He'd grown up hearing Aredian's name spoken with respect: a highly-regarded conservator, one of the most celebrated in his field, who had worked for any number of museums and educational institutions. He and Gaius were of more or less the same generation, and had nourished a healthy sense of rivalry for decades, as well as what appeared to have been a healthy dislike of each other. "Edwin was at the Caerleon. Who tried to squeeze through the kitchen window. You're not going to tell me _that_ was Aredian."

"No, no, of course not, Arthur," Gaius said. He was doing his best to look serious, but it was obvious that years of having to contend with Aredian's less than complimentary comments about his work—always voiced to others, behind his back—had had an affect on him. "Apparently it was this fellow in Aredian's employ. His name's Alvarr, and he used to be Cornelius Sigan's butler, according to Edwin. They're looking for him as well."

"No, this is too weird," Arthur said flatly. He looked over at Merlin, who was staring at Gaius with open astonishment. "If you're saying that _Sigan_ was involved with Aredian…?"

"No, we can't say that," Uther interrupted in a heavy voice. "There's absolutely no evidence to connect Cornelius to any of this. We can't ascribe the crimes of a former butler to Cornelius Sigan. Yes, Arthur, I know you don't like him, but he _is_ a respected businessman and has no reason to want to steal anything."

Merlin's lips twitched, and Arthur, on the verge of saying, "Well, he wanted to steal _Merlin_, for a start," kept his mouth shut.

"No doubt there'll be more news when they catch this Alvarr. Edwin's been swearing he didn't mean to injure Pell, only wanted to push him out of the way when he walked into the room whilst Edwin was searching for the documents, but be that as it may—"

Uther's statement was cut off by Elaine's return to the room with Mordred and the tea trolley, to which everybody's eyes were instantly glued. China plates were piled with tiny fruit scones, teacake, and brandy snaps filled with cream, and Gaius' eyes went from being alight with grim satisfaction at his rival's downfall to being alight with simple greed. Elaine poured out the tea, Morgana dutifully passed round the cake plates, and Mordred settled on the sofa next to Merlin, keeping a wary eye on Will for fear of having his hair ruffled again.

"God, how I miss this sort of thing in New York," said Will gluttonously, eyes wide.

"For pity's sake, Will," Merlin snorted. "You can go down to the corner pastry shop at any time, and buy something similar. The only thing that's hard to find in New York is clotted cream."

"I like cannolis," Mordred said unexpectedly. "I can buy them down on Mulberry Street."

"Mordred," Morgana said sharply, before her young half brother could launch into a discourse on the physics of cannoli-making. "Have you been wandering about Little Italy by yourself, after school?"

"Yes, I have," Mordred replied in his calm little voice. "When I go to Ferrara's, they give me samples of gelato and granita and sfogliatelle and Sicilian cassata and—"

"What!" exploded Morgana, astounded.

"—And tiramisu!" Mordred concluded triumphantly. "I take the subway downtown. Merlin said the neighborhood was perfectly safe, and he told me which shops were the best ones."

"You wouldn't believe the way he can make those pastries and things disappear," Merlin said, as Morgana turned a disapproving look in his direction. "The shop owners down there call him _Il Piccolo Mago_—The Little Wizard."

"Don't eat up all the sweets," Arthur said loudly, in an attempt to distract Morgana from Mordred's transgressions and Merlin's role as fellow conspirator. "Will, that's your fourth scone! We should save some for poor old Pell."

Conversation immediately turned back to Pelles Fisher-King and the incident at the Caerleon hotel, along with Arthur and Merlin's role in apprehending Edwin.

"My dear boy," Gaius murmured, patting Merlin's shoulder. "You did well, from what I hear."

"Wish I'd seen it," Will added, looking from Arthur to his fellow conservator. "Wish I'd been there."

"He may be an idiot," said Arthur, flicking a glance at his civil partner. "But he's a brave one."

"I didn't do much," Merlin protested, mildly embarrassed. "There was a security man in the room, and he and Arthur did more or less everything."

"Still wish I'd been there," Will said, grinning broadly. "To see you leap to the defense of our Assistant Director. Took down Edwin, did you? Must have been a sight, you scrawny bugger."

"Give it a rest, Will," Merlin snapped, but he was smiling. "And where were you, whilst all this was being played out?"

"I spent yesterday in Ealdor," Will murmured under his breath to his childhood friend, one eye on the tea tray and those delectable-looking brandy snaps, the latter fast disappearing down Mordred's throat. "Mum said to give you her love, and didn't the locals just hang all over me, gasping for news about that sweet-faced Merlin Emrys and his knight in shining armor. Course I told them your man isn't really a knight, but your, uh, _father-in-law_ is."

"Will, shut up!" Merlin hissed in agonized tones, looking over at Uther to make certain he hadn't heard.

Uther was still discussing the hotel incident and attempted break-in with Gaius, and Gaius was trying to recall exactly when it was that Edwin had resigned from his job at the Institute. It was then that Morgana dropped her half-eaten scone and blurted out, loud and clear, "Oh, God!"

"It's not like you to call on any deities for aid," Arthur drawled, but Morgana shut him up with a look.

"I knew it," she said adamantly. "I knew an insider must have been behind it. It must have been Edwin who was tampering with our wretched alarm system."

Arthur let out his breath with a resounding huff. "I expect you're right," he said after a moment. "Who else could or would have done it? No doubt we'll be hearing something about it later, especially if Edwin continues to blab."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once the tea trolley had been removed, Elaine went upstairs to tidy a spare room for Mr Fisher-King, and Mordred drifted off to play with the computer in Uther's study. Gaius and Will consulted their watches, deciding they had an hour to spare before heading to Heathrow, and Morgana suggested that Arthur and Merlin open some of their "union presents."

As both had declined to open their mountain of gifts in front of everybody at the after-party, they were still piled on one of the side tables in the sitting room.

"Only two or three," said Arthur. "We'll deal with the rest later."

"That sounds rather ungrateful," his stepsister informed him, frowning.

"Pity's sake, Morgana," replied Arthur. He would have said something else, but for the presence of Elaine, his father, and Mordred. "It's not that I'm ungrateful. It was very kind of so many people to send us wed…civil union gifts. I just don't think I can process them all, mentally, at the moment. Given all these revelations about Edwin and Aredian, and the gods know what else."

"Just open mine, then, and the one from Gaius," Will said, looking at his watch again. "We're off in less than an hour."

This seemed eminently sensible, and Arthur proceeded to unwrap Gaius' present. It was a large, leather-bound volume, quite old, with parchment pages, handwritten rather than printed. From the illustrations and text (nearly all in Latin), it was clearly a—

"This is a book of _magic_," said Merlin in surprise, after stammering his thanks. "That is, what people thought was magic in…I don't know, it looks sixteenth century or earlier."

"Quite right, my boy," said Gaius happily, turning some of the pages. "I've had it for some time, but thought the two of you might enjoy it; it's fascinating and one of a kind. The poor fellow who made it was accused of witchcraft, or something silly like that, and either burned at the stake or hung. Can you imagine? As if any of these spells would work!"

"Let's try casting one on Aredian," Arthur said.

"Mine next," chanted Will, practically flinging his neatly wrapped gift into Merlin's lap, and watching impatiently as he opened it. He had bought them matching pairs of Ray Bans. "So now you can look like those two blokes from 'Men in Black.'"

Merlin chuckled. "So you think I'm as pretty as Will Smith?"

Will snorted and gestured in Arthur's direction. "His Highness, there, is a lot prettier than Tommy Lee Jones, much as I hate to say it."

"You going to buy us the matching suits as well?"

"Cheeky fuck," replied Will, punching Merlin's arm affectionately. "And stop staring at your man, will you? Oh, excuse me, your prince. A sad, sorry case you are, you poor, lovesick sod."

"I'm not staring at…at…I wasn't…" said Merlin indignantly. Well, perhaps he had been, but not so obviously that Will could have noticed. He remembered his earliest days at the Pendragon Institute, when Will had resented and distrusted the Assistant Director, to the extent of warning Merlin against him. It was remarkable, how much this had changed, although Will was still not above making the occasional, if amiable, wisecrack about Arthur's social status and sex-god reputation.

Will was smirking a little now, so Merlin did his best to turn his gaze away from Arthur, who had stuck his new pair of Ray Bans on top of his head. He was smiling at something Gaius had just recounted, and rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands. He looked so beautiful—flushed, boyish, and drowsy, all golden and chiseled and masculine—that Merlin had to bite his lip so as not to smile with pleasure.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The final surprise of the day followed almost immediately, shortly before Gaius and Will took their leave.

"Arthur," Uther murmured a little ponderously, as he noticed his son beginning to look about the room for his jacket. "In the next day or two, remind me to go over the matters of raising the Institute's entrance fee, vacation allotments, pay raises, and so on, for next year. I think perhaps senior staff are entitled to a pay increase. You've all put in a lot of work, attendance is up, I'm very pleased."

"Thank you, Father," Arthur said in a level voice. "But if the upper level staff get raises, so does everybody else."

"I see no grave reason to extend pay increases to the maintenance men and guards," Uther retorted. "They're paid decently, they get good benefits, medical coverage. Your curators and, uh, conservators went without a pay increase last season, but certainly deserve one. I think you can safely give _them_ bonuses, at the very least."

"No," said Arthur crisply. "Not just them. It isn't fair to the people in maintenance and security. After all, they do the donkey work around the place, as the rest of us sit in our comfortable offices and do research or whatever. Not that research isn't difficult and time-consuming, but we don't have to get our hands dirty. And the expense of living in New York City is astronomical. If the economy doesn't pick up a bit more in the next year, I'll go without a year-end bonus—again—and let the staff have it."

"Really, Arthur," Uther said, almost fretfully. "Is that necessary?"

"You've given me leeway to make changes in museum policy, Father," Arthur said soberly. "I plan to give cost-of-living raises at the start of January. And I'll see to it that the maintenance and security staff get them every year."

Uther opened his mouth and then closed it again.

"What about us hard-working conservators," Will began in a loud stage whisper, but Merlin jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

"The _hard-working conservators_," Arthur said without missing a beat, "will be getting the same cost-of-living raises, but the nature of their bonuses is yet to be decided.

There was a silence that lasted for close to a minute, during which Elaine smiled gently at her stepson, Uther gave him a long, thoughtful look from under his brows, and Merlin glowed quietly with pride.

"And there's no need to raise the admission fee," Arthur finally concluded in a calm voice, only the clenching of his fingers betraying the nervousness he might have felt in contradicting the now-frowning Senior Director. He remembered that look from his teen years, when he'd been caught with brandy pinched from his father's liquor cabinet, or when he hadn't performed up to standard on the football or rugby pitch. "There are ways to cut costs that should prove very effective. Fewer lavish parties for the Trustees and museum members, for starters."

"Oh," sighed Morgana, a little wistfully, and her stepbrother looked at her and then suddenly grinned.

"Well, Morgs," he said in a cheerful voice, ignoring the glare that she aimed at him almost automatically. "You see, I'm saving your bank account from future decline. You won't need to buy as many designer gowns next year, if we cut back on the partying and those ridiculous, overblown receptions."

Gaius performed a series of his famous eyebrow gymnastics and turned to Uther with a small smile. "A new age is upon us, my old friend," he said quietly. "Time for us, um, _mature_ fellows to let the younger generation take the reins."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur had pushed the subject of Aredian to the back of his mind, and was content to leave it there for a while. But later that night, when he and Merlin were catching their breath after their first round, he thought to ask what the well-known master conservator had said to the junior one upon their first meeting, at the Institute.

"Oh, he was very jolly and only a little condescending," Merlin replied drowsily, fingertips drawing little, lopsided circles on Arthur's chest. "Kept calling me 'the boy,' which I didn't really appreciate. But he said nothing offensive, I think." A hand tugged insistently at his short fringe; he raised his head for Arthur's kiss, and then, sighing, lowered it to Arthur's shoulder again. "At least he didn't call me an idiot."

"No," Arthur said emphatically, his own fingers beating a gentle staccato rhythm on Merlin's ribs. "I'm the only one who can do that. Hmmm. It's a shame, really."

"What's a shame?" Merlin asked. "That you're sharing your bed with an idiot?"

"No, _Mer_lin," Arthur said in a voice of infinite patience. "It's a shame a man of his abilities had to go wrong."

"Oh, Gaius is worth ten of him," Merlin said a little smugly as he slid an arm over Arthur's chest, pressing his face to the warm, sweat-damp skin of his shoulder, his tongue flicking lightly against it, to taste. "Morgana's right. He's a toad."

"Incredible to think that he wanted to take your place, at one time," Arthur murmured. He rolled to his side, pushing Merlin onto his back, and then bent over him, brushing his lips very lightly over the delicate skin beneath his eyes, his eyelids, and his brow. "Well, enough of Aredian. I only hope I haven't made an enemy for life out of Morgana, deciding to cut down on the number of Institute receptions and fancy parties."

Merlin chuckled. "I don't think she's likely to give them up so easily."

"True," murmured Arthur, tracing the curl of Merlin's upper lip with one fingertip. He bent a little lower, watching black lashes flutter and droop over eyes gone limpid and dark with desire and affection. "She's accustomed to being museum royalty; it won't be easy for the rest of the staff to say no to a princess, if she wants to put it to a vote."

"Yeah, but you're the once and future king," Merlin replied dryly, raising his eyes to study Arthur's own pink, plush lower lip. "And I'm happy to be your conservator, 'til the day I die."

Arthur snorted with amused disbelief, still leaning close above him, but Merlin reached up and put his hands into that golden hair, pulling him down the rest of the way.

* * *

*** In _Outside the Pendragon Institute_.**


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38: Heroes, Villains, and the Pain of Packing**

"What time is it?" Merlin asked, a little breathlessly, squinting at the sunlight coming through the break in the curtains, and making a grab for the alarm clock.

"It just past nine," muttered Arthur, also squinting. "I turned the alarm off before it could ring."

"Before you leaped on me, you mean," Merlin said, muffled in the bedclothes. "Well, we know there's one thing you're never going to have need of."

"What's that," Arthur asked, yawning hugely and rolling onto his back, his mind beginning to move on to coffee and toast, poached eggs and sausages. Was there a more perfect way to begin the day? A warm, cozy romp with Merlin—who had been very obliging, even though half asleep—followed by massive quantities of breakfast.

"What is it I'm never going to need?" he asked again, wondering if they should get up and dress, or simply make use of room service. Again.

"The little blue pill," replied Merlin, stretching and squinching his eyes, like a cat. "It's amazing, really. Men line up at the chemist's to buy pills to make them potent. But they haven't yet invented a pill that will lower a man's sex drive, have they?"

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said severely. "Are you telling me that we have too much sex, and that you'd rather I was a bit less—"

"No," said Merlin dreamily, his eyes still unfocused. "I was just thinking that if they could bottle whatever it is you've got—some sort of super testosterone or whatever—some pharmaceutical company would make a fortune, people would be investing in its stock like mad, and Pfizer would go out of business."

"Stop talking about Viagra, will you," Arthur grumbled, shifting restlessly beneath the sheet partially covering him. "Or I'll have to put off breakfast and prove to you that I will _never _need those bloody blue pills."

"I was wrong," Merlin said musingly, ignoring the hands that were suddenly invading his personal space. "Didn't they used to give saltpeter to soldiers in the army, to keep them from getting all _ummmff!_"

Arthur had rolled over again, and more or less landed on top of him.

"Hey! What about breakfast," Merlin managed to say, squirming. "Aren't we meant to be packing up our belongings today? Reconfirming our flight? And don't we have to go to Belgrave Square for dinner?"

Arthur frowned and eased his weight off Merlin's chest, a little, allowing him some breathing space.

"_Mer_lin," he said abruptly, attempting to get his junior conservator to look him in the eye. "You can't possibly think sex is the only reason I want you."

Merlin gave a startled little chortle, but composed his features into a serious expression. "No, not really…erm, was that a well-disguised insult? I don't exactly think that, but—"

"But, nothing," Arthur said adamantly. "Look, you idiot. Even if a doctor were to tell me I could never—God forbid—have sex again, I'd still want you with me. Now please don't make me say those three mushy words. I have the feeling I said them far too often last night whilst we were, um."

"The only three words I can imagine you saying at the moment are, 'I want food,'" Merlin responded, but he was smiling and his eyes were gentle. Then he stretched again, sighing, and rolled back into Arthur's arms, wrapping his own around his Assistant Director's broad, muscular chest. "In answer to your question, no, I don't think you only want me for sex. You got plenty of sex before you ever knew me. These days, you just need someone kind enough to fetch your breakfast when you're too lazy to get out of bed. Somebody who'll put up with your moods and not mind being called an idiot and having objects flung at him on a regular basis. Oh, and you need me for conservation work at the Institute. I can't understand why you're so worried about what _I _think. After all, half of the international museum community probably believes _I'm_ the one who 'married' you for the shallowest of reasons."

"Such as?" Arthur murmured, relaxing as he felt Merlin burrowing drowsily against his shoulder, fingers combing delicately through the dusting of dark gold hair on his chest.

"We've been over this before. Most of them think I took you for your money. The rest think I joined up with you because you're sexually inexhaustible. By extension, that must mean they think I'm the male equivalent of a nymphomaniac."

Arthur shook with soundless laughter until Merlin drew away and raised himself on his elbow, pressing his lips together with mild indignation.

"Well, O Insatiable One," Arthur said finally, wiping his eyes. "Shall we dress and go downstairs to breakfast, like everybody else? Or shall we order room service, and then pretend you're a nymphomaniac, after."

Merlin stared at him in disbelief. "Your testosterone level must be abnormally high."

And _no_, he was _not _a nymphomaniac, or whatever the male equivalent of a nymphomaniac was. He couldn't help it if memories of so many of their nights—the heat and the fierceness, the surprising gentleness of Arthur's hands, the light baritone of Arthur's groans harmonizing with his own fluctuating tenor sounds—made him shift his position and turn onto his side to hide anything that might give his Assistant Director ideas.

"Budge up, will you," Arthur was saying genially as he reached for the bedside telephone. "I'm _starving_. Is it cereal and fruit or toast for you this morning? How you can keep your energy going on that pathetic hamster food, I have no idea."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"This entirely thing is totally bizarre," muttered Uther, looking at his notes. "It seems there was quite a plot going, with Aredian as the mastermind. I don't understand it. I've known the man for years, and though I've never considered him particularly likable, it never occurred to me that he could come up with a plot like this."

"No," agreed Arthur, musingly. "I didn't like him either, but to get his hirelings to break into our offices…steal Pell's documents…not to mention hit him over the head…I don't understand it."

"As I've said before," Morgana chimed in, in rare accord with her stepfather, "he's a complete and utter toad."

"I've had a talk with the authorities," Uther said heavily, a pained expression on his still-handsome, if somewhat haggard, countenance. "They've given me some information, although there are things they can't tell me, obviously."

"If Gaius were here," Arthur murmured. "He'd be dancing a jig with glee. Well, what did the authorities tell you?"

Uther wrinkled his brow and looked, once again, at his notes. "It appears," he said, drawing out each word as though tugging it from some dark and hidden place, "that there was never any intention of stealing the actual medieval manuscript, Pell's fifteenth-century manuscript. The idea was to access all available reference material and information about it. Um, it seems that Aredian was writing a book."

This announcement made little impression on his audience.

"He was writing a book…and?" Arthur said, raising his eyebrows. "So?"

"So," said Uther severely, "before you came to London for your, er, union, Edwin was already breaking into Morgana's office, and Gwen's textile conservation studio, to read their notes and check up on the latest available information. Aredian paid him to do it. Aredian's book, you see, was going to be about developments in the treatment of legendary figures in European art, from the early to late medieval period."

"I don't follow this," Arthur said, chewing his lower lip. "The odd thing about our tapestry, the borrowed mosaic, and Pelles' manuscript is that there's very little change at all in the composition, from the late twelfth to the fifteenth century. And the figures all seem to be pretty much the same."

"Precisely," his father replied, frowning. "There's very little change, very little development, in this composition over the centuries. This arrangement of three ladies and four males, only one of whom wears armor, is rather unique. It was going to be an important chapter in Aredian's book, and the only way he could think of to get the information he needed was to steal it. After all, the three objects displaying this composition of figures are all in our possession…yes, I know the mosaic's only on loan from that Sicilian collector, but you know what I mean. He had Edwin photograph all the notes and research he found in Gwen's and Morgana's offices, and he paid him to steal those documents of Pell's, that contained information on the background of the manuscript. He knew he couldn't obtain the manuscript itself, but he had that fellow Alvar, or whatever his name is, try to break into this house to photograph it, and to see if we had any further documentation on its origins. And all of this was to be done in such a way that nobody would suspect his own involvement, and nobody would know what was going on."

"And then Edwin completely bollocksed his employer's plan by panicking and hitting Pell over the head, instead of simply running away," murmured Arthur, looking a little dazed. "And this was all for a chapter in Aredian's book on legendary figures in medieval art? Did he have a theory of some kind?"

"I don't know," Uther said, looking from Arthur to the notes in his hand. "But, after all, we all have our suspicions about the identity of the figures, don't we. We all think they're Arthurian. But we couldn't prove it, before we, um, that is, before Merlin spotted that tiny gold inscription beneath the figure in armor, in Pell's manuscript."

"Oh," said his son, glancing briefly at Merlin. "Right. Artorius Rex. I'd nearly forgotten."

"Well, that's at least one identity we can pin down," Uther stated, resting his hands on the top of his desk with a self-satisfied air. His son, stepdaughter, and Merlin surveyed him solemnly until he stopped grinning and sat down, clasping his hands together. "I expect we'll be hearing more of this plot in the near future. But what we do know gives us enough for one of us to write an article on the subject. Morgana—"

"I've already started one," Morgana replied tartly. "I started my research some time ago. But I'm delighted to know that our suspicions were correct, and that the armored figure really does have the same name as my benighted stepbrother."

"If you were trying to make a pun, Morgs," Arthur replied with a long-suffering look, "that wasn't a very good one."

"When we get that manuscript back to New York," Merlin said, a little hesitantly, forestalling any acidic response from Morgana, "I'd like to do a little work on that particular page. There's some dirt and smudged pigment covering what could be additional inscriptions."

"Great," said Arthur cheerfully before anybody else could respond. "Now that's settled…is there any food coming? It's past one, and I'm famished."

"Why are you always so hungry these days, Arthur?" Morgana asked sweetly as they gathered themselves together and moved towards the door. "Isn't the hotel giving you enough to eat? Or have you upped the number of reps in your workout?" Her eyes, blue-grey in the subdued light of Uther's study, slid meaningfully in the direction of the Institute's junior conservator.

"I'm too much of a gentleman," retorted Arthur, "to say anything about the nature of _your_ personal fitness regime. In fact, I'd rather not know anything about it. Le—lover boy didn't know what he was getting mixed up with, did he, when he first took you out to dinner last year. Ow!"

Morgana had slapped him smartly across the back of the head. Fortunately for everybody, Uther had been too engrossed in his notes to notice or hear any part of this exchange, and Merlin had turned his face away, so as to pretend he hadn't seen a thing.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Packing proved to be a less than arduous task, as most of Arthur's belongings had been shipped back to New York from the hotel, and there were only a few articles of clothing, some papers, and some books, in his old room in his father's house. However, the pile of "wedding" gifts had been removed from the sitting room and deposited on his bed, and he and Merlin were now stuffing them into boxes and taping them up, as Morgana watched from the doorway, periodically throwing out suggestions that Arthur completely ignored.

"Mordred and I have a flight to New York the day after tomorrow, at ten," she finally announced, rubbing at her eyes and then looking with annoyance at the mascara streaks on her fingers. "Yours is the same day, isn't it? Are we on the same one?"

"No, ours is sometime round noon," Arthur replied, fastening his suitcase with a sigh. "Too much trouble to change it now. I'm having most of these, uh, wedding gifts sent to our flat, not the Institute…we simply don't have time to open them now and do them justice." He gestured at the pile of carboard boxes. "Would you mind putting these downstairs in the front hall, Merlin? I'm running out of space to maneuver."

Merlin, whose mind was on other things—namely luncheon with his mother the next day, their last in London—absently lifted two of the largest boxes, balancing them in his arms.

"Arthur!" snapped Morgana, peevishly. "You're not going to make Merlin carry all of those boxes downstairs."

"Why not?" her stepbrother said airly. "Merlin doesn't mind. And he needs building up; look at him."

He heard Merlin's exasperated snort, as he poked his head round the side of the topmost box to glower at him. Then their eyes met, and they both smiled involuntarily.

"Oh, God, no!" Morgana muttered, rolling her eyes and flinging her passport into her purse. "Would you two please stop having eyesex and just get your belongings organized? Mordred's waiting downstairs with his present—he wants you to open it now, not back in New York—and Mum wants to serve dinner just after."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Morgana was quite right; her young half brother was waiting for them in the dining room, with a rather large box, big enough to contain a good-sized hunting hound. It was neatly wrapped in silvery paper, and tied with white ribbon. Under the unreadable stare of his father, and his stepmother's benevolent smile, Arthur removed the wrappings and opened box within to reveal—

"What is that?" asked Uther with genuine puzzlement, and his youngest son turned a stony glare in his direction.

"I made it myself," said Mordred coolly. "It has no computer parts. No electronics. I made it _by myself_."

"Mordred," Arthur said, perplexed and astonished, drawing his brows together. "It's…it's magnificent, but…"

"I know what it is," said Merlin hastily, coming to Mordred's rescue. "It's an automaton."

It was a mechanical man, about half life-sized, in a seated position, with a pencil in its hand. It was made of some silver metal that covered its body like a shimmering skin, save for the torso, which was constructed in a cage-like style, leaving the wheels and gears inside open to view. It was also quite a beautiful object, and Merlin stared at it appreciatively as he reached out to gently touch the face with his fingertips.

"Is there a key?" he asked, and Mordred's face lit up, as he pointed to the little silver key in the heartshaped keyhole set into the automaton's chest. When Merlin gingerly placed the figure at dining table, a sheet of paper beneath its hand, and wound it up, there was a clicking, then a whirring noise, and the little man's hand moved across the paper, as they all stared, transfixed. When the hand stopped moving, Merlin nudged the paper out from beneath the hand, and held it up. It was now marked with a medallion-like design, featuring the forms of a cup, a wand, a rose, and a lily, around which was coiled, in circular fashion, the figure of a dragon.

"Um," said Arthur, thinking fast. "Those are old symbols of the magician, the sorcerer, protected by the, er…"

Mordred stood looking at them with his unfathomable gaze. It occurred to Arthur that he had never known a child to be as capable of _stillness_ as his little half brother, whose wide, ice-blue eyes were intense in his pale, three-cornered face with its neatly modeled features—he would almost certainly grow up to be very good looking—and secretive mouth.

"But Mordred," said Morgana, perplexed. "Why would you…how did you…I don't quite understand…"

"I used clockwork parts, and bicycle gears, to make him," Mordred said clearly, in a voice that his older brother realized was beginning to change from a piping treble to something deeper. "I hope you like it. The magician is you, Merlin, and the dragon is, well, Arthur."

Mordred spoke with his usual, glacial calm, but Merlin, even more than Arthur, sensed an element of hurt feelings and affronted pride beneath that poker-faced exterior, so he spoke quickly, and with sincerity, before Morgana could respond.

"This took real brilliance, Mordred, and imagination. It's beautiful. I couldn't have done it, not without help. We'll see you at MIT or Cal Tech, yet."

Morgana looked dubious, but Merlin was rewarded by one of Mordred's rare, beaming smiles.

Elaine was warm with praise after that, hugging her son (he permitted it) with pride, and Arthur—who was genuinely impressed—promised to send Mordred to some advanced science classes at Columbia as a visiting student, since he wouldn't be able to enroll properly until he finished high school. Uther muttered something about "the first scientist in the family; must come back to England for university," and Mordred said loudly to Merlin, "I knew _you'd _understand it, at any rate," and then proceeded to re-wrap his masterpiece, glowing a little from the belated compliments.

"Well," said Morgana, when the hubbub had died down. "What I have for you isn't a patch on Mordred's gift, but I do think you'll enjoy looking at it. I've just finished putting it together, nobody else has seen it yet."

_It_ turned out to be a scrapbook she had been working on for over a year, containing photographs of Arthur from infancy to the present, and liberally laced with pictures of the Pendragon family, members of the Institute staff, and Arthur and Merlin at various museum events (there was even one from an Institute staff meeting). There were two or three candid snaps of Arthur playing football in Central Park, as Merlin and Mordred looked on, and another of the most recent Institute Christmas party. This last featured herself in her Wicked Ice Queen costume, Gwen and Lance in silly elf caps, Gwaine pouring hefty drinks for everybody, Uther looking distinctly inebriated, and Merlin wearing The Infamous Hat.

Arthur wandered into Uther's study, where he sat down to look at the photos more carefully, as Elaine hustled Morgana off to prepare for the evening meal. When Merlin entered the study to join him, he found Arthur examining one of the earliest pictures, lips pressed tightly together and brow furrowed.

"What?" said Merlin. "Let me see." He looked down at the album, and then realized that it was an old photograph of Ygraine, Arthur's mother, its colors still fresh in spite of the fact that it must be close to thirty years old.

Neither Arthur nor Merlin could imagine where Morgana had located this picture, or how she had bullied Uther into letting her have it. Perhaps she had simply borrowed it (or stolen it). Ygraine was delicate and fine-boned, almost nymphlike in a pretty, smock-shaped dress of cream-colored linen and lace, fair hair loosely knotted at the back of her neck. She had Arthur's cheekbones, full lips, and jawline, in addition to his coloring, and was very visibly pregnant.

Arthur remained silent, and stared at this for several more minutes, before standing up and handing the album to Merlin. A little later, when Merlin glanced up at him, he could see that Arthur was brooding…not angry, not really upset, but definitely in the grip of some melancholy thoughts. Not surprising, thought Merlin, who knew that prior to this, Arthur had owned only one image, a portrait photo, of his dead mother.

Merlin bit his lip, his heart flooded with compassion, but he was aware that Arthur probably didn't want any sympathetic comments or gentle words from him. So he turned back to the album, and after flipping through the early pictures he located a photograph of Arthur as a child, standing alone. He fished his wallet out of his pocket, located a photo Hunith had given him before the civil union, and held it next to Arthur's. There _he_ was, Merlin at age ten, milky pale and skinny as a twig, hands in his pockets, the bones of his thin shoulders showing through a grubby white tee. Eyes wide and candid beneath a wayward cap of black hair. He placed it next to the picture of Arthur at roughly the same age, his blue eyes looking straight into the camera, as though issuing a challenge, all vulnerability carefully hidden away, his pose militarily upright in contrast to Merlin's guileless slouch. Gilt blond hair and a face of heartstopping beauty, his skin still baby-smooth, with a delicate flush along the cheekbones.

"If we're two sides of the same coin, as The Dragon says," he murmured aloud, hoping to shatter his Assistant Director's melancholy, "it's a very odd coin, suffering from split personality disorder."

Arthur peered over Merlin's shoulder at the two photographs, and then exploded into reluctant but genuine laughter.

* * *

**I know I've played fast and loose with the spelling of a couple of names, my bad. Arthur's mum was Igraine in "Inside…Institute," but now it's Ygraine in accordance with the BBC scripts. Catrina has been Katrina from time to time. I'm sorry if it's caused any confusion. My own fault for making stories so loooong.**

**As for silly Aredian pulling all of those shenanigans for the sake of a publication...you'd be surprised at how cut-throat some historians, musuem professionals, and academicians can be when it comes to publishing something new ahead of their competition!  
**


	39. Chapter 39

_A few readers still have disabled messaging on their FF accounts, so I'm unable to reply to their kind comments._

* * *

**Chapter 39: Home Again, Home Again**

"What I find difficult to understand," said Merlin, re-fastening his tray table to the back of the seat in front of him, "is why Aredian would go to all that trouble. For a chapter in his bloody book."

The airplane hit an air pocket and nearly half of the passengers in Business Class said "_oh!_" as their stomachs somersaulted.

"Are you quite all right?" Arthur queried, undisturbed by the turbulence. "You're turning green, Merlin. You should have taken those tablets before you got on the plane."

"No, I'm okay," replied Merlin, tight lipped. "But I want to know what you think about Aredian."

"He's a first-class egotist," said Arthur, patiently. The plane jolted again, and Merlin swallowed. Arthur put a hand on his thin wrist, thumb rubbing gentle, soothing circles over his pulse point.

"Take deep breaths, _Mer_lin."

"Really, I'm okay," said Merlin with a little gasp. "I'll just ask for some ginger beer."

"Ginger ale," corrected Arthur, signaling for the closest flight attendant. "And sit still, stop fidgeting. What hurts, besides your stomach?"

"Erm," said Merlin, flushing. "That's all your fault."

"Oh," Arthur muttered, flushing in his turn. Having placed the order for a ginger ale, he leaned sideways, over Merlin, so as to catch a glimpse of the masses of puffy cumulus clouds beyond the window. "Here's one of those motion sickness pills; you see, you really do need looking after, idiot. To get back to Aredian, he was a well-known conservator, but he always wanted to be known as a top notch scholar. For whatever reason. He was envious of Gaius, as well. Probably even envious of you, for having gotten a position at the Institute so easily. So he was writing this book, and wanted to make a scene-stealing splash that would have art historians looking up to him. He knew of the existence of Pell's manuscript—how, I don't know—and of course he'd seen the Courtiers Tapestry when Sigan owned it, and must have seen that mosaic in Sicily. He knew the parallels among the three couldn't be mere coincidence. But he had no chance of examining Pell's manuscript first-hand, so he resorted to…to criminal behavior. Hiring our employee, Edwin, to photograph Morgana's and Gwen's notes, and to try to steal those documents from Pell's hotel room."

"That is so weird," Merlin said, wrinkling his forehead. His ginger ale had arrived, he had taken a Dramamine tablet, and was now drinking the carbonated liquid in small sips as the airplane lurched in the turbulence.

"We may find out more, later," Arthur murmured. "Once this thing goes to trial. In the meantime, I'm sick of the entire business. I'm just pleased to know Pell's okay. By the way, how was your mum yesterday? Any plans to come to New York for a visit?"

"Erm," said Merlin drowsily; the Dramamine, as usual, was making him want to sleep. "She was fine, sent you her love, said she thinks you're an absolutely kind, considerate, and lovely person. Which leads me to wonder whether early dementia is setting in."

"Thanks," said Arthur scathingly.

"You're welcome," replied Merlin absently. He had lunched with Hunith the previous day, presented her with a small stack of photos from the civil union, and gotten her to promise to visit within a year's time. He had also shown her the photograph album Morgana had given them as a gift, but refrained from telling Arthur that the pictures of a lonely, motherless, yet stoic blond child had brought tears to her eyes.

"Gaius sent me a text," Arthur was saying, lowering the back of his seat and stretching his legs in front of him. "First he complained about how much he hates texting. Then he said we're not to come in to work until we've had a day or two to recuperate. That eveything's running smoothly at the Institute, and we never did get a proper, um, honeymoon because of this Aredian thing. Naturally, he's eager to have Pell's manuscript in his hands, but he said it could wait."

The illuminated manuscript, being portable, had been carefully wrapped and stowed in Arthur's luggage, along with proper identification papers for Customs.

"Gaius is like a mother hen," Merlin said, smiling feebly.

"_Morgana_ wants us to take our time coming back to work," Arthur added. "But I know it's only because she wants to prolong her reign by as many days as possible."

"I got a text from Gwaine, as well," Merlin said after a moment's pause, yawning. "This morning."

"Really?" said Arthur, frowning slightly. "I wish he wouldn't…what did he say?"

"He said something about all of us meeting for lunch on Saturday," Merlin said, yawning again. "He's pining for Elena, and wants to visit her as soon as he can get more vacation days from the Met."

"They _really_ have hit it off, then," Arthur murmured, sounding pleased. "Elena deserves a fun-loving, physical sort of bloke. And it's nice to see Gwaine in love with something other than his hair."

"You don't suppose they'll get married, do you?" Merlin queried as he tried to focus on photographs of Pelles Fisher-King's manuscript that he had brought with him in his carry-on bag. "And go off to some scenic isle for a romantic honeymoon? Knowing Gwaine, that would be a total waste of money; he'd want to spend the entire time in bed."

"Knowing Gwaine, eh?" Arthur snorted, making an effort to quash his ever-present possessiveness when it came to his junior conservator. "And what other brilliant ideas does Gwaine have?"

Merlin shrugged. "He and Leon have been talking about driving to New Jersey for a beach weekend…Cape May, or someplace scenic like that. Lance and Gwen might go with them; and Morgana, of course. He thought we might like to go as well."

"Cape May could be nice," Arthur said, taking the photographs from Merlin and stuffing them into his briefcase. "As long as wherever we go is far away from whatever part of the Jersey shore Snooki and her friends frequent."*

"Gwaine wants to find a beach where he can skinny-dip," said Merlin, his head beginning to list to one side. "I don't know if they have such a thing in New Jersey. It's probably not legal. He'll do it anyway. But I don't think the rest of us should."

"Right," said Arthur, grinning broadly. "No argument there. A sight that would be, you leaping about in the waves looking like a skinned rabbit."

Merlin's retort was cut off by an announcement over the airplane's sound system. "The captain has turned off the fasten seatbelts sign. You may feel free to move about the cabin."

A moment later Arthur, who was sitting in the aisle seat, felt a light touch on his arm, and looked over to see a little girl, about ten years of age, standing next to him. She was holding a small, leather-bound album in one hand, and smiling a little tentatively.

"Hi," he said brightly, wondering whether she had mistaken him for somebody else. "Can I help you, young lady?"

"My mum says you work in a museum," the girl replied without preamble. "She says you're famous." Her wide brown eyes swept his face with admiration. "Could I have your autograph, please?"

Arthur, who couldn't remember ever having been asked for an autograph before, save where it was necessary on a form or document, was temporarily tongue tied. He could hear Merlin cackling with partially suppressed laughter on his other side, but at the same time, he was rather touched.

"I'm not famous," he finally replied briskly, surreptitiously jamming his elbow into Merlin's side. "But I'll sign your album, if you'd really like me to."

"Oh yes, please," said the girl, proffering her album with an eager smile. Opening it, Arthur saw that it was filled with signatures and little messages from other children, judging by the penmanship, and was probably a memento from her final year of primary school. Arthur signed a page in his best handwriting, and handed it back to her, ignoring the snorts and muffled guffaws of his junior conservator.

"There," he said in a kindly voice, offering up his best media-friendly smile. "Heading back to school, are you?"

"It's just until the end of June," his admirer replied, tucking the album into a large purse ornamented with fluffy kittens and puppies. "My favorite class is chemistry, and Mum says I can do a course in biology this summer, if I really want to. Oh, thanks ever so, Mr, um." She withdrew the album once again, opened it, and stared hard at Arthur's signature. "Mr Perdingen."

"You hear that?" Arthur said to Merlin as the girl scampered back down the aisle to her seat, purse clutched under her arm, and Merlin stifled his roar of mirth in his airline pillow. "Chemistry and biology. We should set her up with Mordred. Well! That was a surprise. I mean, I'm not famous, not really, I mean not like a movie star. Perhaps her mum saw a copy of that Vanity Fair magazine from, when was it, last year?"

"Your photo appears in magazines and newspapers every now and then, Mr Perdingen," Merlin replied, wiping his eyes. "You're well-known enough."

"Yes, but—"

"Uther would be happy," Merlin continued. "To know that both his museum and his son are well-regarded by regular human beings, not just lofty scholar-types, high society donors, and the glitterati who come to exhibition opening night parties. Gaius says he thinks your father's quite pleased with you. About your work, that is. Even if he isn't thrilled about, erm, me."

"Pleased with me?" Arthur muttered. He laughed shortly, and leaned back in his seat again, eyebrows raised skeptically. "He disagreed with me about almost everything…the pay raises for staff, keeping admission fees low, keeping the building modifications simple. He may be pleased with the way the Institute's going these days, but I don't know that he trusts my judgment. I don't know that he believes in me."

"What about your staff?" Merlin asked, sitting bolt upright and looking more alert. "Most of them—for whatever peculiar reason—worship you. The so-called 'lower-ranking staff' think you walk on water. _They_ believe in you. Gaius and Lance and Gwen believe in you."

"I notice you left out Morgana," Arthur said dryly.

"Wellll…Morgana thinks you're great; she just refuses to show it."

"And you?" Arthur said in an alarmingly subdued voice, turning to look at him. "Merlin?"

Merlin gave a prodigious yawn, but his eyes, when they met Arthur's, spoke volumes. "I believe in you," he said simply. "I always have."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Deplaning at JFK Airport would have been somewhat easier if Merlin hadn't been half asleep; Dramamine tended to do this to him, and he ambled along next to Arthur, bumping into him every few minutes, as they collected their luggage and made their way to the taxi stand just beyond the terminal. Once settled into a cab, Merlin promptly drowsed off, his head dropping onto Arthur's shoulder, as Arthur spoke sharply to the smirking driver, giving him directions on the quickest way to their part of town.

"Why is it you _always_ seem to fall asleep on me in taxi cabs, _Mer_lin?" he growled as they screeched to a halt at the curb in front of their building and Merlin peered at him bleary-eyed. They hauled suitcases and bags from the boot of the cab, enlisted the aid of the doorman to get everything into the lift, and, once inside the flat, let everything fall to the floor in a heap.

"I can't believe we're actually _home_," Merlin said, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "It seems as though we were away for eons."

"You'll notice," Arthur said with a lopsided grin, "that I did _not_ carry you over the threshold."

Thanks to their arrangement with Ellie, their cleaning lady, everything was spotless, floors freshly swept and scrubbed, plants watered, furniture dusted and polished, a bowl of fruit and a neatly wrapped loaf of bread on the kitchen table, and a bottle of champagne and a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge.

"Let's hope there are fresh linens on the bed," Arthur murmured, and Merlin gave him a look.

Their mail was piled in a gargantuan heap on the hall table, and both of them eyed this with dismay.

"Bloody hell. Let's start with emails," Arthur said, resignedly. "Less of a mess to deal with." He averted his eyes from the towering stack of envelopes and headed for the study, Merlin tagging along behind him, still rubbing his eyes.

Ellie had given the study the same thorough treatment as the rest of the flat: the computers were dust-free and the papers and books on their desks were neatly stacked, the desks themselves shining with what smelled like lemon-scented wax polish. Arthur switched on his monitor and groaned at the long list of emails awaiting him.

A number of these, most specifically those from Lance and Leon, seemed to have been written in a humorous vein, with Arthur as the deliberate target of their jokes.

"I suppose the staff will have plenty of snide remarks ready, for our return," mumbled Arthur. "For the first time I set foot in the Institute as a, um, non-single man."

"There's a first time for everything," Merlin replied absent-mindedly, knocking some of the papers on his desk onto the floor. Arthur didn't reprimand him, his mind going back (as it often did) to the first time he and Merlin had—after a great deal of kissing, and after Arthur had stripped them both—lain down together in that Santa Barbara hotel room. How his lips had traveled the length of Merlin's long, pale throat, and how Merlin—experienced enough with the female gender but not at all with men—had trembled and wrapped his arms round him. How he had guided Merlin's hands until Merlin, a fast learner as he always described himself, got the hang of things. And how they had fallen asleep together, still loosely embraced, a light breeze from the partly open window drying the sweat from their bodies.

"I don't know that I can face these emails," Merlin was saying now, biting his pillowy lower lip. "Mine are mostly from Gwen and Will, about conservation issues…I think I can deal with this stuff when I see them at the Institute."

To Arthur's surprise, he—and not Merlin—had received an email from Gwaine.

_Hope you're back home in one piece, mate, no airline hassles. Lance and his missus want us all to go out next weekend, for dinner or drinks. Let one of us know if you're keen. Naturally, this invitation is also extended to your lovely Merlin. Cheers, Gwaine._

"At least," Arthur murmured, "he acknowledges that you're _mine_."

"Honestly," Merlin said, frowning. "Between the two of you—the way you talk—I'm starting to feel as though I have a dog license tag hanging round my neck, with 'Please return to owner if found' written on it, along with your phone number."

With slight trepidation, Arthur opened an email from Morgana, which was thankfully brief.

_Dear Arthur, Mordred and I arrived home in record time. I'm going in to the Institute tomorrow, but there's no need for you to rush back there. Take a day or two to recuperate. You must be exhausted after everything that's happened, and all of the Edwin and Aredian nonsense…and having to deal with Uther. I promise you I can look after things at the Institute without you, until you're properly rested. Merlin too, as I'm sure you've worn the poor boy out already. Morgana_

"The woman has no shame and no tact," Arthur growled. "I told you she wants to prolong her position of power for as long as possible. Did you get any messages from her, Merlin? Merlin?"

He turned his head to find that Merlin had abandoned his computer and disappeared. Sighing and shutting down his computer, Arthur followed the sounds of rustling and thumping to find his partner and junior conservator seated on the bedroom floor, drowsily unpacking his luggage.

"Look," said Arthur, restraining a grin. "Let's have something to eat, and go to bed early. We'll stay home tomorrow and go through the mail and other things. Let Morgana have one more day at the helm."

"Mrrmph," said Merlin in reply as he got to his feet. They ate bread and cheese and fruit seated at the kitchen table, drank most of the pitcher of iced tea, and left all of their dishes in the sink.

"You can wash up first, Merlin," Arthur announced, stretching and then rubbing his knuckles over the back of his neck. "I'll just send a nasty little email to Morgana, and then unpack."

"Right," said Merlin, yawning for the hundredth time that day and surprisingly obedient, as he headed in the direction of the bathroom. "I hope we've an extra toothbrush…I left mine in London. Should we set the alarm clock, then?"

"No need," Arthur responded, rummaging in his carry-on bag. "We're staying at home tomorrow, remember?"

"Believe it or not," Merlin said before disappearing into the bathroom. "I'm eager to get back to the Conservation studio…there's something I want to do with Pell's manuscript."

Half an hour later, having washed with sleepy haste, they collapsed into bed with groans of relief and exhaustion. They were far too tired for any kind of sex—an unusual state of affairs—but Arthur pulled off Merlin's tee shirt anyway.

"Arthur..." Merlin protested sleepily as the hem of the tee shirt caught on his chin. Arthur tugged it off the rest of the way and tossed it in the general direction of the bedside table.

"Shhhh," he whispered, cradling Merlin against him for the sheer pleasure of feeling that warm, smooth skin against his own. "Just a cuddle. Go to sleep."

* * *

***I don't know whether Snooki, JWoww, Pauly D., and their booze-and-sex-obsessed friends from the TV reality show, "Jersey Shore," are as notorious in the UK as they are in the US.**

**I couldn't resist that "I believe in you, I always have" quote, from the final episode of "Merlin" Series 4.**


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40: Return of the King  
**

Merlin woke to the faint sound of traffic, sunlight coming through the window whose curtains he had forgotten to draw the night before, the sight of a grubby but intrepid pigeon, balanced defiantly on the window ledge, and the warmth of Arthur's hand on his thigh.

"Hey," he mumbled, sliding away before Arthur could grab anything. "Is it late? Is it time for breakfast?"

"In a bit," replied his Assistant Director, hauling Merlin back in. "I found some eggs and bacon in the fridge last night, and some cut up fruit and other meatless-type things for you. Ellie really does think of everything, bless her. Look at that pigeon, will you?"

Merlin could hear a light tapping and scraping on the windowpane. The pigeon, apparently, was on the lookout for breakfast handouts, and was testing the windows of their building for open ones.

"I hope that means you're going to give her a bonus," Merlin mumbled, flinging one arm across his face to block out the light. "Ellie, I mean, not the pigeon. Arthur, listen. I've been thinking about that manuscript."

"Really?" said Arthur casually. The manuscript was locked away in the safe, in the study, and would be taken to the Institute the following day. Although Arthur and Merlin usually walked to work, Morgana had arranged for a car to pick them up in the morning, as a measure of protection for the work of art.

"I want to get started on the cleaning of that page," Merlin continued. "There are two areas in particular—the front of the knight's tunic, and the partially obscured name beneath the, erm, dark-haired figure next to him."

"The one who looks a bit like you, you mean," Arthur said. "And the figure in armor isn't a knight, he's a king, remember?"

"All things considered, the page is in excellent condition, so—"

"I'm glad to hear it," Arthur interrupted, his voice suddenly very close to Merlin's ear. Merlin rolled his wrist back and opened his eyes, to see Arthur's only a few inches away. He looked astonishingly wide awake, and although his cheeks and chin were stubbly and his sunny hair a bird's nest, his eyes were alert and very blue, his cheeks were as pink as a child's, and he was smiling broadly enough to display those pointed eyeteeth.

"Geroff," Merlin expostulated halfheartedly, as Arthur's hand suddenly took him in a firm grip. "Are you never serious?"

"You know perfectly well, I'm usually very serious," Arthur retorted. "Ask anybody at the Institute. I'm just not serious first thing in the morning, when there are other matters to attend to."

"I can't believe you," Merlin said in an exasperated voice, trying and failing to look as though he wanted this to stop. Arthur's palm and fingers were warm and his grasp strong; Merlin bit his lips to stifle a whimper, and half sat up.

"Don't tense so," Arthur murmured, pressing his junior conservator's shoulder with his free hand, effectively pushing him back onto the pillows. "This is supposed to help you _relax_."

"I suppose this is your way of getting me to participate in your first wank as a non-single man," snapped Merlin. "Isn't it."

"No, _Mer_lin," Arthur replied judiciously, shifting his grip. "This is all for you."

"That pigeon's—_aah!_—watching," Merlin said, glaring helplessly at the window, and the bird was indeed facing them, cocking its head and giving the impression that it was examining them with its beady eyes. "It's…it's a voyeuristic New York pigeon."

Arthur snorted, but his hand remained where it was. "Nobody can see," he murmured reassuringly, flinging off all of the bedclothes with a vigorous kick. "And who cares about a bird?"

"I…erm…oh…" said Merlin, fading into incoherence and then closing his eyes, because, really, this was a little bit embarrassing. Even if their only audience was a pigeon.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Ready to face the troops?" Arthur asked Merlin, at the kitchen table. They were dawdling over breakfast, bleary eyed but pleased beyond words to be home again, in their own private space, with no Uther to worry about and no social obligations to fulfill…at least not yet.

"We should go back to the Institute tomorrow," he added, peering at the calendar on his iPad.

"I look forward to it, actually," Merlin said, running both hands through his disheveled hair. "I told you, there are things I need to do to Pelles' manuscript. I want to stabilize the gold leaf on the opening page. And then I need to get started on that cleaning…nothing complicated or invasive."

"Just make certain to tell me, before you do anything to it," Arthur said, munching on the remains of his toast in a ruminative manner and reaching for a strip of bacon. "I may be your partner, but at work I'm still your boss. I know you love to disagree with me at the Institute, but if we don't keep combat to a minimum, everybody will be making jokes about married bickering."

"I suppose you're quite happy," Merlin said, just a little sarcastically. Arthur had been looking inordinately pleased with himself since getting out of bed. "For having won our first round of 'combat' since returning home."

"Single-handedly," Arthur replied in serious voice, and Merlin found himself incapable of maintaining a straight face.

"Incidentally," Arthur went on, finishing the last of his toast and sending crumbs everywhere. "Old Pell thinks wonders of you. Says you're probably quite brilliant, and have a remarkable future ahead of you. Professionally, of course. We already know that thanks to me, your private life is going to be remarkable."

"Watch it," said Merlin, wryly. "Your head is getting to be as big as your waist."

"There is nothing at all wrong with my waist," said Arthur. "I simply wanted to let you know how impressed Pelles is with what he's heard about your talent."

"I didn't think it likely he was impressed with my charm or handsomeness," retorted Merlin. "But thanks for telling me."

"You're not _handsome_, exactly, _Mer_lin," Arthur murmured, eyeing him critically. In an old pair of very ratty-looking jeans and a wrinkled grey tee shirt, Merlin was hardly a model of sartorial elegance, but those eyes, that ivory skin, dark hair, and those cheekbones…that crisp profile, the curl of that upper lip! Even those ears looked delectable. "At least, not in the usual sense. As I've said before. But you're quite beautiful in your own strange way."

"I know I'm strange," said Merlin, standing up and carrying his dishes to the sink, where they joined the detritus of the previous night's dinner. "No need to remind me, your highness. Shall we see to all of that mail? Perhaps the medieval book of magic Gaius gave us as a union gift has some spell that will make it disappear."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rest of the day was devoted to unpacking what was left of their luggage, catching up on emails, wading through the horrific pile of snail mail, and trekking to the local supermarket to stock up on edibles. The wedding gifts that had not been opened in London had been delivered to their flat, and Merlin amused his Assistant Director by tearing them open like a child on Christmas morning. The bottle of very old brandy from Lance, the handsome crystal decanter from Leon, and the silver candlesticks from old Geoffrey Monmouth, had been placed on the sideboard; the framed textile fragment—a portion of a medieval bishop's cope, richly embroidered with gold thread—from Gwen was hung on the wall. Gwaine's gift, a pair of beautiful champagne flutes and a bottle of expensive champagne, was examined appreciatively before the champagne was put into the fridge by Arthur.

"I'm surprised Gwaine gave us such a traditional present," Merlin said, eyebrows slightly raised. "I was prepared to come face to face with something really lurid, like matching leather underwear, or velvet bondage ropes and bumpy textured condoms in neon colors, or flavored—"

"Good lord, _Mer_lin, you do have a pervy imagination," said Arthur with mock disapproval. "That's quite shocking, coming from somebody who looks so bloody innocent."

"It's not _my_ imagination," protested Merlin. "I was simply channeling Gwaine."

"Hmmph," Arthur muttered, his lofty expression making it quite plain what he thought of Gwaine's mental processes. "Before he met Elena, I wouldn't have put it past him to offer himself as a present."

"What would you say if he did?" Merlin asked with genuine curiosity, and then ducked as Arthur threw a sofa bolster at him.

The maintenance and cleaning staff had pooled their resources to buy a container of Sevruga caviar as a gift, and Percival had given them two pounds of chocolate truffles from La Maison du Chocolat. Merlin promptly betrayed a certain similarity to Mordred in his ability to down large mouthfuls of these, before Arthur took them away and hid them, "for your own good, _Mer_lin, or you'll be sick tomorrow. Now, let's get through the rest of that mail, shall we?"

"Prat," said Merlin with difficulty, as his teeth were more or less glued together with chocolate.

That evening, they sat in the living room, sprawled on the sofa in front of the fire that Arthur had built in the fireplace, in spite of the mild weather. They drank a little coffee and then a little brandy—not too much—and sat staring contentedly into the flames. Merlin glanced sideways at Arthur and saw that he had leaned his head back against the sofa, eyes closed, not smiling but calm. He looked smoothed out and rested, jet lag or no, and it occurred to Merlin that his Assistant Director, or civil partner, or whatever he wanted to call him, was genuinely happy.

Looking around the room in a quiet daze of fatigue and excellent brandy, Merlin felt himself to be in love with the entire world. Of course, most of his colleagues were lovable, although in different ways. He loved Gaius as the man who had taken the place of the father he had never known. He loved Will, the friend of his years in Ealdor, and Lance and Leon were the best mates he could imagine. As for Morgana, his affection for her was only slightly tinged with fear mingled with a healthy respect. Gwen was sweetly lovable, Gwaine had been a steadfast friend to him in spite of his flirting, and Arthur, naturally, _commanded_ love.

Arthur unobtrusively removed Merlin's glass from his grasp, and Merlin stared at him woozily.

"Time for bed, I think," Arthur announced, standing up and stretching, before holding out a hand to Merlin to pull him to his feet.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Their arrival at the Institute at nine the next morning was greeted with loud whistles and cheers; somebody (probably Morgana) had unearthed a cache of obnoxious noise-makers from one of the museum's New Year's Eve parties, and distributed them to the staff.

"At least they're not pelting us with rice," Arthur muttered, and then they both flinched as a hail of confetti descended upon their heads.

"For pity's sake!" Arthur expostulated, shaking some of the mess from his hair. "The cleaning staff is going to have kittens. Whose idea was this?"

Merlin was chuckling under his breath, but he too was covered with little snippets of white, some of which appeared to have print on them. "I know…they raided the paper shredder."

"It was Will's idea," Lance said helpfully. "And he warned the cleaning staff ahead of time, so they can tidy things before we open at ten. I always thought our shredded financial reports, bills, and confidential documents would come in handy, someday."

Both Morgana _and_ Gwen were cackling maniacally, and Leon was grinning broadly, his hands on his hips. Gaius, as usual in these situations, was sighing benignly, his face set in an expression of patient disdain for the silly antics of youth. Merlin escaped first, pleading the need to take Pelles Fisher-King's manuscript to the Paper Conservation studio, and Arthur marched determinedly to his office, bits of confetti drifting from his hair and the shoulders of his well-cut suit. He knew better than to follow Merlin to the basement studio, having learned, at their very first meeting, that his junior conservator became extremely focused and uncommunicative when working on an object, and not inclined to welcome distractions of any kind.

"How have things been holding together?" he asked his stepsister and Gaius, when the two presented themselves at his desk two hours later, Gwen and Will trailing in their wake.

"Very nicely, thanks," replied Morgana crisply. "The place didn't fall to bits in your absence, as I knew would be the case."

"That isn't what I meant," Arthur said patiently. "Anything new to report? Gaius, I suppose Merlin's already working on Pell's manuscript? He couldn't wait to get his hands on it. But I imagine there are other pieces awaiting his attention."

"Will's dealing with the three-dimensional objects that need treatment, and doesn't need any assistance at present," murmured Gaius. "Isn't that so, Will? No, there's nothing new to report…Gwen's finished her conservation of that knight's tunic and bishop's miter, and we're all relieved to hear that Uther has given up his idea of turning the basement into exhibition space and relocating the Conservation studios."

"Yes," added Morgana vehemently. "It makes much more sense, in the long run, to build a nice little annex to serve as new exhibition space."

"Right," said Arthur, who was as happy as any of them that the basement would remain as it was. "We can deal with that issue later. There's really nothing else new?"

"Oh," Morgana said hastily, looking at her fingernails rather than the Assistant Director. "Leon's been offered a teaching job at one of the city universities." She continued to inspect her flawlessly lacquered nails, a faint blush spreading across her elegant cheekbones.

"Really?" Arthur responded after a brief moment of silence. "Teaching English literature, I suppose? Does that mean he's leaving us?"

"Um," said Morgana. "Not really. If it's alright with you, he'll remain on staff here, part-time, as a security consultant."

"I see you have this all figured out," Arthur replied dryly. "Well, I have no objection. And I'd like to keep him here, even if only on a part-time basis. I'd be sorry to see him go."

He realized—even if Morgana wasn't going to say it—that this was one way to ensure job safety for Leon, in the event that Uther objected violently to his relationship with Morgana. Not that Uther was aware of their connection, now, but no doubt he would find out in the fullness of time. And although he had certainly enjoyed Leon's conversation upon meeting him, he wasn't likely to approve of any relationship Morgana might pursue that wasn't with a titled _and_ moneyed landowner.

Which was, of course, ridiculous. Morgana had plenty of her own money, and had no interest in somebody else's wealth or status. Uther would simply have to get used to things. Just as he had had to face the fact of his older son's attachment to a fledgling conservator—male, no less—from a modest social background.

"We'd all be sorry to see him go," Gwen was saying earnestly. "He's an admirable guy."

"The visiting ladies like him," Will added, smirking. "Because he's a fit, good-looking bloke, and all that. I heard one actually asking him if he's married."

"Really?" said Morgana in her haughtiest voice. "Good lord."

"If Morgana ever takes the plunge into matrimony," Arthur said, thinking out loud, "I suppose Lance and I can organize her future prisoner's—er, husband's bachelor party. We'll pull out all the stops, purchase gallons of the best whisky, hire a top-notch stripper, and see to it that the poor fellow has a good send-off."

"If that's the case, dear stepbrother," snapped Morgana, gritting her teeth and turning bright pink. "I think the bridal shower can upstage your boorish little-boy party without much trouble. Can't it, Gwen?"

"Oh, by all means," Gwen replied, straight-faced. "We'd employ a very special stripper, male of course, who'll put any female the boys hire to shame."

"I don't suppose," Morgana murmured, "we could get Channing Tatum? After all, he used to be in that, er, line of business. Look into it, would you, Gwen?"

"And why do you think," said Arthur coolly, "that Mr Tatum would be even vaguely interested? I'm sure he has better things to do."

"Because I'm nice," Morgana retorted, pursing her lips. "Because I'll ask nicely. Wait—why are we even discussing this? Nobody's getting married, Arthur. We've already had one wedding this season—yours—and that was quite enough."

"In other words," Arthur, crossing his arms and staring at the ceiling, "he hasn't asked you yet—" And then he had to step backwards as the flat of Morgana's hand missed his face by millimeters.

"Oh, there you are," Merlin panted, appearing in the doorway just in time to save his Assistant Director from Morgana's second attempt. "I've been ringing all of your offices, looking for Gwen. Gwen, I've cleaned the smudge on the knight's tunic, and I wanted your opinion about something. Would you mind coming down to Paper Conservation with me? It's, erm, rather important."

"If Morgana doesn't need me for anything," Gwen began, but Morgana, rage forgotten, smiled and quirked her eyebrows with curiosity.

"No, run along and see what Merlin wants," she said, making shooing motions with both hands. "I don't suppose you could give us a hint?"

Merlin bit his lip and fidgeted, a sure sign of either excitement or uncertainty. "Well…I've been cleaning the front of the knight's—I mean king's—tunic, and there's an emblem, or crest…it's small but it looks a bit like a lizard, or a bird, can't quite tell…I wondered if Gwen knew of anything similar from her work with textiles."

"Right then, run along, you two," Arthur murmured, echoing his stepsister. "I'll come down to have a look tomorrow, if I can get rid of all this paperwork. Have fun."

"Fun!" said Gwen, rolling her eyes. But Merlin was already pulling her through the door. Arthur could hear their animated chatter in the hallway, as they made their way to the stairs.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin's sleep, that night, was restless. Ordinarily, he shifted a little in his sleep, or rolled against Arthur, flinging a leg, or arm, across his Assistant Director's body. He might even make childlike snuffling noises into his pillow. But on this particular night, he tossed and turned as though feverish, and spoke in his sleep, something he'd hardly ever done before. Wakened by Merlin's squirmings, Arthur listened with a kind of amused astonishment to these unconscious murmurings, which included words like "dust mites," "breakfast," and "football hooligans."

He drifted off at two a.m., only to be startled awake at seven by more muffled speech from his companion, whose spiky, rumpled hair was tickling his neck.

"Salamander," Merlin mumbled in his sleep, into Arthur's shoulder.

"What?" said Arthur, instantly diverted. "What d'you mean, salamander?" He nudged Merlin awake, not too gently, and chewed on the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh as his junior conservator looked at him with sleepy confusion.

"What did I say?" Merlin asked, barely intelligible and blinking owlishly.

"Salamander, or something along those lines."

"Oh!" said Merlin brightly, his eyes suddenly wide awake. "Right."

"What do you mean, right?" Arthur exclaimed, drawing his brows together. "First you wake me up with your mutterings and rubbish, then you make ri_di_culous statements and expect me to understand them."

"It only _looks_ like a salamander," Merlin said with finality. "But it isn't. I think Gaius knows."

"Now you've lost me entirely," Arthur snapped, beginning to feel like somebody left out of a group conversation. "What looks like a salamander, and what does _Gaius_ know?"

"You'll see," said Merlin maddeningly, hurling himself out of bed and heading for the shower, leaving his Assistant Director sitting up against the pillows, naked, sleep-deprived, and completely in the dark.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41: Revelations  
**

A day after their return to the Pendragon Institute, Merlin still had not revealed the meaning of his nighttime mumblings to his Assistant Director, and Arthur—never the most patient of men—was beginning to become, well, _im_patient.

He attempted to pry some information out of Gaius, only to be met with a frown and an eyebrow raised to alarming heights.

"Are you certain," Arthur asked the head of his Conservation department, "that Merlin knows what he's doing with that thing?"

He gestured towards the worktable at the far end of the Paper Conservation studio, where Merlin was diligently bent over the Fisher-King manuscript. The shimmer of the gold leaf was visible even across the room.

"Certainly he knows what he's doing," replied Gaius, looking surprised. "I should have thought that you, of all people, would have faith in him."

"I do, Gaius," Arthur retorted, a little stiffly. "I just want to know what he's hoping to find on that page once he's cleaned it."

"Let him finish it first, Arthur," Gaius said gently. "Then he can bring his findings to me."

"Findings?" said Arthur, feeling completely left out of the loop. Irritation was beginning to set in; museum directors weren't supposed to be kept in the dark. "Merlin can't find his own backside most of the time."*

It was obvious that Arthur had quite forgotten how effectively sound carried in the cavernous space of the Paper Conservation studio.

"Why should I bother," Merlin retorted from the other side of the studio. "When you always know exactly where it is."

"Patience, Arthur," Gaius murmured, doing his best not to smile at the sight of the blush that suddenly suffused his Assistant Director's handsomely chiseled features. "I believe that we should have some answers by tomorrow."

Any further argument on Arthur's part was forestalled by the entrance of Will, his arms filled with rolled-up sheets of acid-free paper, a brush clenched between his teeth.

"You look like a dog with a bone or a retrieving stick," Gaius rebuked as Will dropped the paper onto one of the worktables with a thud, and opened his jaws to release the brush. "How many times have I told you not to carry things in your mouth?"

"Yeah, you're polluting them with your bacteria," Merlin said, from his own worktable. "That's disgusting. Don't come anywhere near this manuscript with your drooly brush," he added, as his fellow conservator trotted across the studio to examine his work.

"I'll be buggered," Will commented, staring down at the page over which his childhood friend was laboring. "You're _still _working on that thing, then? Let's have a look."

It was obvious that nobody in the Conservation department had any intention of discussing Pelles Fisher-King's manuscript with the museum's Assistant Director, and Arthur stalked out of the studio feeling decidedly put upon.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He felt less disgruntled after the museum closed at five, as his senior staff—with the exception of Leon, who had to stay until half past five to close up the building and give instructions to the night guards—marched Merlin and himself to The Griffin, where they had scheduled an informal, boozy "after-party" of their own. The proprietor allowed them to take over nearly half of the front room; the vases on the bar and in the wall alcoves were filled with white flowers instead of the usual colorful arrangements of blossoms and leaves, and the free-flowing champagne was the best The Griffin had in stock.

"And there's no Uther," Gwen crowed under her breath. "We can all relax and say whatever we please, without having to worry about being sacked afterward."

"It's a work night," Arthur mumbled in a game attempt to maintain his leadership status outside of the workplace. "We can't get drunk…we have a staff meeting tomorrow."

Morgana raised her eyebrows at him and knocked back a shot of tequila so briskly that her stepbrother blinked.

"Oh well, just see to it Merlin doesn't have more than three glasses of champagne," he said resignedly, shrugging his shoulders. "Or we'll have to bundle him into a taxi and take him home."

"As we did once before," his stepsister said with a meaningful look. "I always did think that evening was the start of something between you two."

"No, it wasn't," protested Arthur, staring back at her. "I never touched him, that night. I didn't lay a finger on him. I just, er, went to sleep."

Morgana looked at him archly and strolled away, leaving Arthur feeling mildly self-righteous. He had spoken the truth—remembering all too clearly how he had tucked a very inebriated Merlin into bed and prepared to take his leave, before passing out as a result of his own drunken state. And how the two of them had faced each other next morning in Merlin's bed, in a state of confused embarrassment. Oh, but he had wanted to touch his clueless junior conservator, then! But he had restrained himself, eaten the breakfast prepared by Merlin, and taken himself home after a relatively cordial conversation in which he had essayed only a few very minor insults.

Just thinking about the state of unrequited lust in which he had found himself that morning had him glancing about for Merlin. He spotted him almost at once, sitting across the room, chatting away with Gwen, Lance, and _Gwaine_…bloody hell, why did Gwaine always turn up at their festive events, and why didn't he spend more time with his own colleagues, from the Metropolitan Museum? Arthur mentally punched himself for the sudden spurt of jealousy he always experienced when Gwaine slung his arm across Merlin's shoulders, as he was doing now, and walked purposefully to their table.

"Alright, Arthur," Gwaine said as he approached. "Lovely party, isn't it? Gwen and Lance's idea, but everybody else was more than happy to participate."

"I'm flattered," Arthur responded as courteously as he was able. "Thrilled beyond measure. A pity we all have to come to work tomorrow. How's life treating you, since your return?"

"Couldn't be better," Gwaine said smugly, releasing his grip on Merlin and thumping the table so vigorously that his lager spilled. "Going back to London in a month. Elena might fly over for the winter holidays, as well."

Arthur felt the tenseness in his own shoulders relax. "Excellent," he managed to say, with what he hoped didn't sound like relief. "It'll be great to see her. When you speak next, give her my love, will you?"

He glanced quickly at his junior conservator to see whether there was any reaction to this, but Merlin was smiling a little sleepily, and diagramming something on his napkin with a pencil, for Gwen's benefit.

He was still looking sleepy, and humming under his breath, when they were in their flat, an hour or so later, collapsed on the sofa in front of the fireplace. As on the previous night, Arthur had lit a modest fire and poured two small brandies; he sat on a footstool close to the hearth, meditatively peeling and slicing apples and putting the slices onto the coffee table. When he tossed the last apple peel into the fire, he turned round to find that nearly all of the slices were gone.

"_Mer_lin!"

"Humm?" said Merlin drowsily, turning his face up with a smile that made his eyes go almond-shaped and enhanced the already prominent slant of his cheekbones. Arthur grumbled, dropped his fruit knife, and found he could think of nothing better to do than to kiss him.

"Mmm," he said musingly after drawing his mouth away. "Apples and brandy. Yum. More, please."

Merlin raised both eyebrows. "I can't believe you actually said _please_," he murmured, holding his Assistant Director off with a hand on his chest. "You must be drunk. Or this civil union thing's had a mellowing effect on you."

"Not a chance," replied Arthur cheerfully, ignoring the restraining hand and pulling Merlin in. "It was a momentary slip. Idiot."

"I suppose you expect me to be all submissive and obedient, now that we're a legal couple," Merlin said moments later, when Arthur released him.

Arthur flung back his head and shook with laughter.

"Not bloody likely," he said, when he could speak. "I don't imagine you're about to change now, just because we have a legal document with our names on it. You've been insubordinate from day one. From the moment you walked into the Institute."

"Huh," replied Merlin. "And you've been a bully since the day we met."

"Rubbish," said Arthur. "I merely have a _tendency_ to take the upper hand."

"Two can play at that game," murmured his junior conservator, drawing his fine black brows together.

"Really?" said Arthur in a conversational tone. "And precisely how do you plan to do that?"

Merlin gave a little, three-cornered grin and reached out towards Arthur's belt buckle.

"Shameless, _Mer_lin," said Arthur contentedly, settling himself against the sofa cushions. "You're completely shameless."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin adjusted his work light with the greatest of care, and stepped back from the table on which the Fisher-King manuscript lay, its pages open to the familiar composition of three noblewomen and the flanking male figures. It was two days since the party at The Griffin, and Merlin had finally declared his cleaning of the manuscript to be complete. He had summoned the Assistant Director from his office, and Arthur was now leaning over the Conservation worktable, examining the exquisite image with a critical eye.

The illustration, with its seven figures, glowed under the light, and Arthur could see the blurred creature ornamenting the tunic of the crowned knight—except that it was no longer blurred. Merlin had cleaned the surface there, and what had looked like a salamander, or a sooty, elongated dachshund, was now visible as a serpentine creature of orange-gold, with a long-snouted head, wicked claws, and wings folded back against its body.

"Oh," he said. "It's a dragon. Of course."

He raised his head and saw that Merlin was unconsciously clutching the tiny gold dragon that hung around his neck…the only gift his father had ever given him, apart from his chromosomes.

"That isn't all," Merlin said, his voice oddly choky, and Arthur looked at him before turning back to the manuscript. Merlin had gone a little paler than usual, but his eyes were very bright, and it was difficult to tell whether he was pleased or distressed.

He handed Arthur a magnifying glass, and the Assistant Director bent over the shimmering page, narrowing his eyes to peer at the figures for a second time. The tip of Merlin's finger, magnified several times, appeared beneath the glass, pointing, and Arthur saw that the smudges beneath the dark haired male figure had been cleaned as neatly as the newly-revealed dragon. There was a tiny inscription there, and as Arthur squinted, he could just make out the name: _Merlinus Ambrosius_.

"Oh, hell," said the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute, at a momentary loss for appropriate words. Then, "I don't believe it. Well, at least it doesn't say Merlin Emrys."

"Arthur, for pity's sake," Merlin replied, frowning. "You're a scholar, come on. Emrys is the Welsh form of Ambrosius."

"But…Merlin the sorcerer's an old man. He's always depicted as an old man. With a beard and all that."

"He can't have been _old_ all his life," retorted Merlin. "He didn't tumble out of the womb with a long, white beard. He must have been _young _at some point. This is obviously _young_ Merlin."

"But he looks like a servant...not a magician or whatever."

"Just because he's dressed like a servant, that doesn't mean he isn't a wizard," Merlin snorted. "Although it looks as though he's got jewels on his clothing. Anyway...have a look at this."

He pointed to the shoulder of the figure's simple cotte, at the faint suggestion of a jeweled pin. The central jewel wasn't a jewel at all but a tiny dark shape that Arthur, with the aid of a glass, could just make out to be a bird.

"It's a merlin," said Merlin, his voice tinged with satisfaction.**

"Well," Arthur said musingly, biting his lip, not even attempting to hide his surprise, and his genuine pride in his junior conservator. "No wonder the figure looks a bit like you. And if that armored knight is supposed to be King Arthur…hmmm. "

Merlin said nothing in reply, simply giving his Assistant Director a rather sardonic look.

"Funny, isn't it?" Arthur continued, musingly. "You know…Arthur, Merlin. And that Merlin should be shown as the king's servant, rather than his, uh, wizard or whatever."

"Oh yes, hysterically funny," replied Merlin, straight-faced. "I hope you're not implying that I should be in a position of servitude to you. It's beginning to look as though Arthurs have been ordering Merlins about since time immemorial. Well! There are a few spells I'd actually find quite useful, if they only worked."

"Such as?" murmured Arthur, beginning to frown.

"Oh…nothing," Merlin said evasively. "I'm glad I'm not this poor fellow, slaving away for an armored king who's probably a total prat. Anyway, I've no desire to wear jewels of any sort."

Arthur eyed his junior conservator, lanky but lissome in his plain blue tee shirt and faded jeans, his spiky fringe newly trimmed high on his forehead, those full, pink lips pressed tightly together. The only thing he was wearing that could be even loosely called jewelry was his absent father's small gold dragon. That, and the simple gold band round the third finger of his left hand.

"Well," Arthur finally said, raising his eyebrows. "_You've_ certainly worked magic with this bloody manuscript. I shouldn't wonder if its value's gone up, now that we know who these fellows are."

"Whatever," Merlin said absently, switching off the study lamp. "Look, I haven't even shown the fully cleaned page to Gaius yet; you were so bloody insistent about being the first. Let's show it to him now, and see what he says."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur struggled upright, wrenching himself from the miasma of a nightmare.

Sweat was running cold down his face and his chest, and his heart was pounding as if he had just run a marathon through six inches of mud. He brought his hands up to his face and breathed deeply. Beside him Merlin slept peacefully, lips slightly parted, his breath purring through them like a kitten's, one hand flung out to the side, where it had slipped from Arthur's chest when he sat up.

Sleeping, yes Merlin was sleeping, thank all the gods there might be. Not taken from him, not gone. Arthur's mind scrambled to recall the dream—the nightmare—and bits of it came back to him with a cold clarity. No violence, no villains trying to harm them, no blood or swords or modern weapons of mass destruction. Just the edge of a forest and a misty shore, with the wavelets of a lake lapping against the pebbly beach below the tree line. And a boat, far out upon the water, and moving farther away. Merlin, swathed in a cloak, was standing in the boat, facing the shore, and as Arthur watched, Merlin raised his hand in silence, the solemnity of his expression suddenly broken with just a little smile, and Arthur had known that he was saying goodbye.

A dream, for pity's sake. Only a nightmare. It must have been because of that bloody manuscript, and those richly painted and gilded images of two mythological figures. You are not superstitious, Arthur. Don't be such a girl. Here's Merlin, your Merlin, right next to you, and he's fine. Only sleeping. Arthur wiped his face with the back of his hand, and a great, shaking sigh, like a sob, erupted from his breast before he could stop himself.

Evidently Merlin hadn't really been asleep after all, because when he opened his eyes they were clear and wide awake. He turned onto his side, his face only six inches or so from Arthur's, and looked at him solemnly.

"What is it, Arthur? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," grated Arthur, cursing himself for an idiot. "Go back to sleep, Merlin. It was…I…"

Merlin raised an eyebrow sleepily and gave him a questioning look.

"It must be indigestion," Arthur said with finality.

Merlin's lips quivered and for a moment Arthur thought he was going to chuckle, but he didn't. Instead, he sat up and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, his touch so tender that for a moment Arthur clenched his teeth to keep from breaking down. As always, he hated feeling weak, he hated to _seem_ weak, and in front of Merlin, of all people. He was Arthur Pendragon, _he_ was the strong one. He had always been the strong one. And then he bit the inside of his cheek with the bittersweet sting of self-knowledge and a sudden desire to laugh at himself, because he knew, had been aware, almost since he first met him, that Merlin was every bit as strong as he. Not _physically_, but strong in his convictions, in his affection, in his refusal to give in to things he thought might not be right. He might look spindly, delicate, but there was an inner core of steel that was no less for being well-hidden beneath a boyish exterior.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered, in one of the few moments of emotional neediness he would ever permit himself to show. "Promise you won't ever leave me. Ever." And then, forcing himself back into the old, familiar pattern of masculine bravado and banter, "Unless you want to be beaten unmercifully when I catch you, that is."

"Spoken like a true son of the Middle Ages," Merlin said, yawning, but Arthur could sense clearly that he was smiling, and his voice was as soft as if he was addressing a child. "Why did those ridiculous blokes think beating their consorts was a sign of affection?" He spoke as though in jest, but one hand was brushing the sweat-damp hair from Arthur's forehead, fingertips light.

"Because it _was_," Arthur replied with deliberate arrogance. "And if anybody ever deserved to be beaten, it's-"

"Oh, will you shut up," said Merlin gently, and pulled his Assistant Director into his arms.

* * *

***Another quote I couldn't resist, from an early Series 4 episode.**

****I owe thanks to Lea Redfire for suggesting I use the image of a merlin in this manuscript.**


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42: All's Well That Ends Well**

_To: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org_

_From: utherpendragon_at_albion_inc_dot_org_

_Subject: Pelles' manuscript_

_Dear Arthur, Thank you for emailing photos of the newly cleaned page of Pell's fifteenth-century manuscript. It should cause some stir among art historians, literary historians, devotees of Arthurian legend, and the international museum community. There will, no doubt, be numerous requests from museums, to let them borrow the book for exhibit. Perhaps we should wait a little longer to unveil this new discovery. My love to Mordred and Morgana, and my regards to your staff, and to Merlin of course. Your affectionate father_

_Reply from: arthurpendragon_at_pendragoninstitute_dot_org_

_Dear Father, Thank you for your most recent communication. I hope that you and Elaine are well. Please give her my love. Morgana has begun her research on Pell's manuscript, which we are in the process of accessioning, officially, into the museum's collection. Merlin has new digital photo details, high resolution, which will be posted on our FTP site so that you can download them yourself. We are both grateful for your participation in events relating to our civil union in London, and hope to see you in New York in the near future. Arthur_

There was no way Uther could ever know that his older son had crossed his fingers behind his back as he typed the final words of that last sentence, one-handed, onto his computer screen.

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"Arthur," said Morgana, resting her hands on the shining wood of Arthur's desk top and smiling demurely. "I've made a good start on my article for the Institute's Bulletin. I'm focusing on the pictorial image shared by our Courtiers Tapestry, the Sicilian mosaic, and Pelles' manuscript. If I can finish it in time for the autumn issue, I think we can rest assured that there will be quite a stir among specialists in the field. Medievalists. Art historians. Museum professionals…and, of course, conservators."

Her stepbrother looked up at her from his chair behind the desk, his expression unreadable.

"That can't be what you came to tell me," he said evenly. "You told me all that in an email, yesterday."

Morgana came as close to fidgeting as Arthur had ever seen her. This was not a normal state of affairs, for his stepsister was ordinarily cool, collected, sardonic, and anything but…fidgety.

"Leon's beginning his stint as a professor this September," she said finally, two spots of pink suddenly appearing on her cheekbones. "He'll be here, at the Institute, twice a week, as a security consultant. You did say that wasn't a problem, didn't you? It isn't as though this will affect the budget."

"It's fine," said Arthur, narrowing his eyes. "And you know I don't have a problem with Leon working here part-time. I suppose you've said something to Father about, well, you know, you and him?"

Morgana fidgeted some more, not meeting his eyes, and her mouth drooped. Arthur was suddenly reminded of the way Mordred looked whenever he was in the midst of a disagreement with his…with _their _father.

"No," she replied after a moment, lifting her chin. "No, I've told Mum, but I've not said a word to Uther. I suppose I can understand, now, how you felt before you told him about yourself and Merlin."

With an effort, Arthur held back the grin of satisfaction that was threatening to break through his expression of empathy. "Right. Well, you've never been really afraid of Father, not for as far back as I can remember. My guess is that you'll go in guns blazing, and Father will never have a chance. I'll back you up on this, of course. That is, if you think you need backup."

"You owe it to me," Morgana responded with just a hint of smugness. "Now, would you and Merlin like to come for dinner on Saturday? Mordred is bored to tears with just little old me. I would have suggested lunch, but I think noon might be too early for Merlin, poor boy. He must be done in with, er, fatigue…from working on Pelles' manuscript, _of course_. I do hope you're being gentle with—"

"That'll do, Morgs" Arthur said in his most directorial manner. "Thanks for the invitation. I trust lover boy, I mean Leon, will be there as well? I'll ring you this evening, after I've talked to Merlin."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time the weekend was upon them, Arthur had been on the receiving end of any number of announcements. The alarm system was given a clean bill of health by two different sets of inspectors. (Edwin had managed to get into both Morgana's office and Gwen's, as well as the Textile Conservation studio, and had known enough about the system to prevent it from being tripped and sending its signal to the police until he was safely out of the building.) Leon was training one of his security staff to take over for him during the days when he would be teaching in the fall. Lance had his eye on a magnificent visored helmet that was coming up for sale at Sotheby's September auction. Mordred claimed that he could read Latin inscriptions on works of art more quickly than anybody working at the Institute. And Morgana demanded that the Institute keep Pelles Fisher-King's manuscript a secret, even from other museums, until it was ready to be displayed with the other "matching" works of art.

"I'm not surprised, really," Arthur commented to Merlin, early Saturday afternoon. "If we say nothing about it, it'll make a huge splash when it's finally revealed in the exhibition. We'll have other museums swarming us with loan requests. Morgana's planning to call the show 'Arthurian Legends in Art,' and she'll have the manuscript, the Courtiers Tapestry, and the mosaic in the same gallery, lined up, so to speak, so that visitors and scholars can compare them easily."

"That's great, honestly," said Merlin, over his shoulder. He was standing on a chair, rummaging on the top of one of the bookshelves in the study, frowning slightly.

"What on earth are you doing, Merlin?"

"Looking for my old magnifying glass," said his junior conservator, turning his back to Arthur once again. As he reached for the top of the bookcase, his worn tee shirt rode high above his waist, and his Assistant Director could examine the long, lean line of his back, the slimness of his hips, where they vanished into narrow, low-riding jeans, and the small, tight curve of buttocks beneath the denim.

"Merlin, I can count nearly all of your vertebrae," Arthur said severely.

"I've found the oddest things on this bookshelf," Merlin commented, ignoring Arthur's statement and jumping down lightly from the chair. "A box of petrified chocolates, at least five years old by the look of them. Three empty CD cases. An empty lager can. A riding crop. I hate to think what you might have used that for."

"Oh, for God's sake, _Mer_lin," Arthur snapped. "A riding crop is for riding horses, not for beating people on the bum. And I've never been greatly interested in BDSM. At least…not really. Anyway, I'll bet it's Morgana's. She used to stop by here, before going up to Van Courtland Park to ride."

"Right," said Merlin, unconvinced, the crop swinging from one hand. "Shall we give it back to her, so she can use it on Leon?"

"Every time she visits, she leaves something behind by accident," Arthur went on, shrugging with annoyance. "Look; she left this in my office, so I brought it home to return to her at her dinner party." He pointed to the latest copy of _Vogue_ magazine, which was sitting on his desk chair.

"I didn't think it was the sort of thing you'd be reading yourself," replied Merlin, putting down the crop and peering at the lanky fashion model gracing the cover. "Don't tell me there's a picture of _Morgana _in there."

"Not this time," Arthur replied with something between a snort and a bark of laughter. "She does appear in the 'Society' pages every now and then." He dropped the magazine and turned his attention to the photographs Merlin had just scooped up from his own desk. "Now, what's that you're looking at?"

"Before and after photos," replied his junior conservator. "Of the manuscript, that is. Gaius took them. Details of those two figures…you know."

"Morgana's in seventh heaven," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "She's become quite obsessed with her article; she's doing research like mad. She spent most of yesterday at the Morgan, looking at some of _their_ fifteenth-century manuscripts. Of course, it's made her a bit testy, and she's been snapping at everybody. Poor Leon." As he spoke, he picked up Morgana's abandoned copy of _Vogue_ and paged through it absently.

"Gaius shot these himself," Merlin said, examining the photographs. "He's been experimenting gleefully with his new digital camera, pretending he doesn't like it even though he does, and complaining constantly about how hard it is for someone of his generation to master the new technology."

"The things they write about in these women's magazines," Arthur said, clearly disinterested in Gaius' complaints. Eyebrows raised, he skimmed the glossy pages of Morgana's _Vogue_. "There's actually an article about the perils of long-term relationships, and how to keep your sex life from getting stale."

"Stale?" asked Merlin absently. He was squinting in an effort to see every detail in one of Gaius' photographs. "Do you mean, like food?"

"No," replied Arthur. "Pay attention, Merlin!"

"I _am_ paying attention," Merlin said reproachfully, putting the photograph down. "You said something about sex being like food."

"I did not," said Arthur with a sigh of exasperation. "I said nothing whatsoever about food. This article says couples should experiment."

"What?" responded Merlin, raising his eyebrows. "Experiment? You mean, like spouse-swapping and threesomes?"

"_No_," shouted Arthur, dropping Morgana's magazine. "Absolutely not. Nobody else is going to touch you. No," he went on, in a calmer voice. "It isn't talking about _swapping_ and _threesomes_. It's referring to things couples can do in the home."

"They can do both of those things in the home," Merlin said, not because he wanted to do them, but because an indignant Arthur, his eyes blazing sapphire, his nostrils flaring and jaw set, was such an amazing sight.

"No," Arthur said again, brushing Merlin's comment aside. "It says they shouldn't let sex become ordinary and rote. They should vary their, uh, routines. They should try doing it in different rooms of the house, until they've used all of them."

"What do they mean, _all_ of them?" muttered Merlin. "These magazine writers obviously don't live in New York or London. What if the happy couple only have a miniscule studio in Greenwich Village, or a bedsit in Camden, to have sex in?"

"We have plenty of rooms," said Arthur musingly, tapping his fingers on his desk.

"Arthur," Merlin said cautiously, seeing the imp of mischief in his Assistant Director's eyes. "What are you on about?"

"Hmmm," said Arthur, glancing at Merlin and then at the floor, with a speculative air.

Merlin followed his gaze. "Arthur, no," he said, edging away, eyes wide with a combination of laughter and apprehension. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Arthur replied, taking a step forward. "We've never done it in the study before." He took another step, and slid one hand beneath Merlin's shirt, against the deliciously cool skin of his back.

Merlin shivered. "Arthur," he began, and was effectively silenced. After several minutes Arthur released him and began unbuttoning his own shirt.

His junior conservator looked down at the polished hardwood floor and then at the door, only to find that Arthur had positioned himself there.

"This floor's really hard," he said as he realized that his exit strategy was not going to work. "I don't think…"

"Who said it had to be the floor?" murmured Arthur, surveying the top of the desk and smiling. "I'm open to other suggestions, _Mer_-lin."

"Oh God," said Merlin, rolling his eyes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Arthur whispered

"Easy for you to say," grumbled Merlin. He was, in fact, still breathing fast, his face and neck still flushed, the ecstatic tingle in his limbs only just beginning to diminish. "You weren't the one being pushed about, and bent over desks, and then wrestled into the _armchair_."

"It's an upholstered armchair," retorted Arthur, pushing the hair back from his brow. "It's quite comfortable."

"Yeah, _you_ were sitting in the armchair," Merlin said. "_I _was sitting on—"

"Oh stop whinging, _Mer_lin," his Assistant Director said cheerfully. "You seemed to like it perfectly well. The proof's all over the place."

"Prat," muttered Merlin, doing his best not to smile. "And we're meant to go for dinner at Morgana's. In less than two hours."

"Well," said Arthur, still sounding cheerful. "I think I'll shower now…perhaps you'd like to join me?" The fingers of one hand were still tangled in the silky mess of Merlin's spiky dark hair; he untangled them, ran the back of his hand down the side of that piquant, angular face, and heard his junior conservator sigh. Merlin's left hand came up and captured Arthur's, clasping it strongly, and Arthur looked down at the lean, clever fingers entwined with his. The gold ring glowed on his third finger, and on his other hand, the deep red stone, engraved with the Pendragon crest, just caught the light. Days earlier, Merlin had returned the Pendragon signet ring to his right hand, and Arthur wasn't sure which symbol gave him the greater pleasure.

"Now," murmured Arthur, getting to his feet and pulling Merlin up with him. "We're both in need of the shower, so we'd better do it now, _together_, or we'll be late. No protests, please. I promise I'll not lay a hand on you, at least not until after Morgana's little get-together."

Merlin gave him a doubtful look.

"I suppose you're going to wear one of your wretched band tee shirts," Arthur went on, heading for the bathroom. "You're setting Mordred a terrible example when it comes to how to dress for dinner."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur had guessed correctly; Leon was indeed at Morgana's dinner, as was Gaius. Morgana, who could be astonishingly domestic when she put her mind to it, had cooked the entire meal, with some assistance from her young half brother.

"Mordred's got a real talent for this," she informed her assembled guests, as they meandered, drinks in hand, from her large sitting room to her smaller, but equally elegant dining room. "He did a lot of the bouillabaisse himself."

"It's just fish stew," Mordred said to Merlin, under his breath. "Nothing could be easier."

"It must be because of all that work in the chemistry lab at school," Morgana went on, relentlessly. "He's so precise when it comes to measuring and timing."

"He'll be very popular when he's a grad student at MIT or Cal Tech," Arthur said. "Profs will be clamoring to be invited to his dinners."

"Uther's still blathering away about sending him to Oxford or Cambridge," Morgana announced. "Either of which would be lovely, but Mordred is insisting on Cal Tech or MI—"

"—T," Arthur said, interrupting her. "Why worry about that now; it's years away. And if he decides he wants to study art conservation, there's always the Fine Arts Institute."

"Right," said Morgana briskly. "I'll leave it to you to explain these things to your father, then. Now, Arthur, I'd really appreciate it if you wrote the introduction or foreword to my catalogue. And I _will not_ appreciate it if you say no. Gaius and Merlin have already agreed to write a brief chapter on the conservation of the manuscript."

Arthur shot a reproachful glance at his junior conservator, who responded with a faintly apologetic grimace.

"She cornered us after coffee break, yesterday," he whispered. "And neither of us could think of a way to get out of it."

"Arthur, really," said Morgana, almost fretfully. "It's going to be the most splendid and important exhibition the Pendragon Institute has ever held. What with these magnificent works of art, and themes of legendary kings and wizards and heroic quests. We'll have an opening night reception, and a dinner for the Trustees and our most important donors and sponsors, after." Her eyes were already misty, and her stepbrother could see that she was conjuring images of catered food, designer evening gowns, and glowing reviews in the newspapers, in her mind's eye.

"Oh, and did you know," Morgana added, leaping from one subject to another like a cat in the midst of a conclave of mice. "The State Assembly is going to vote on the Marriage Equality Act in mid-June. The governor's behind it one hundred percent."

"Right," replied Arthur. "I did know; I saw it on the news this morning."

"My friend in the state legislature thinks it'll pass."

"Since when does she know anybody in the state legislature?" Arthur murmured, exchanging confused glances with Gaius. "My god, this woman gets around."

"Does that surprise you?" his Head of Conservation responded, both eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. "Morgana! Any puddings coming? You promised gingerbread, if I recall correctly."

"I made it myself, yes," Morgana said smugly. "But just think," she continued, a little maliciously, as she tapped Arthur smartly on the forearm. "If the act is voted into law, you could have waited a bit and gotten married here…"

"Morgana, please," Arthur said patiently. "We're not going to go through all of that again." He was listening to her with only half an ear; thinking, instead, about whether they should walk home from Morgana's flat or take a taxi. It was a blissfully cool evening, they could stroll along Central Park for part of the way, and they could watch the city lights through the branches of the trees before they turned off onto their own street. And Arthur could scold Merlin for bumping into him as they walked, and look at his unrepentant, urchin grin, and his black hair ruffled by the evening breeze.

"It's bliss to be back home, isn't it?" said Morgana, who had been eyeing the changing expressions on her stepbrother's face. "Back into the old routine. Now, perhaps I should make some coffee? And where has Gaius got to, all of a sudden?"

"He's on a heroic quest," Arthur announced. "For the perfect slice of gingerbread. I believe you'll find him in your kitchen. Merlin! Would you kindly live up to the reputation of your namesake, and help her highness conjure up some coffee to go with it?"

* * *

**This is the final chapter; it will be followed by an Epilogue.**

**Thanks to MonicaOP for reminding me about the Pendragon signet ring**.

**The Marriage Equality Act was signed into state law on June 24, 2011.**


	43. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

By midsummer, Morgana's research on the Fisher-King manuscript was paying off. Nearly every day she strode into Arthur's office, brandishing a sheaf of papers, or a printout from her computer, or an ancient tome she had unearthed at the library, a triumphant smirk on her face. It was becoming really trying.

It had been a relief to almost everybody at the Institute when their senior curator swanned off to Aspen, Colorado, for a breath of cool, mountain air, taking an uncomplaining Leon with her. They were gone for a four-day weekend, having packed up their books (Leon was hastily working up reading lists and study sheets for the course he would be teaching on Chaucer at the university, in the fall), jackets for the cold nights, and bottles of sunblock. As fond as all of the staff members were of Morgana, her intensive research had made her edgy and impatient...in short, more difficult than usual to be around for long periods of time; her brief absence, therefore, gave them an opportunity to relax.

Arthur himself had dragged Merlin away on a brief business visit to a colleague in Paris, a former schoolmate who was now doing freelance work at the Musée de Cluny. They spent two days there-Marcel and his wife provided a guest room in their large, rambling flat a stone's throw from the Champs Elysees-and then, work accomplished, they had spent another three days in Brittany. There, on the edge of a sea the color of his junior conservator's eyes, Arthur had turned a warm golden-bronze as the light freckles on his back and shoulders became more pronounced. They had waded in the shallows, and then dived and swum in the deeper water, watching the sunlight break up into a million blinding splinters of silver on the azure surface. At night, they had wandered along the coast road, or ambled into town for a coffee or a drink; even later, in their rustic hotel bedroom, there had been the blissful contact of limbs cooled by the breeze that came off the water, lips sweet with the taste of pear cider, and a sleepy ardor that even hours of strenuous exercise in the open air could not abate.

"_Mer_lin, I do believe you've got a trace of suntan," Arthur had murmured in the airplane on the way back to New York, eyeing the pale gold flush across his companion's high cheekbones and the bridge of his slender nose.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A week or so after these events, Arthur ran over his notes for the week's staff meeting as he poured his breakfast coffee and munched absent-mindedly on a butter-soaked crumpet.

He had awakened first, and washed in the guest bathroom so as not to wake Merlin, who was sleeping the sleep of the just and innocent, curled up in the tangled bedclothes. After finishing his coffee and shoving the meeting notes into his briefcase, he returned to the bedroom to retrieve his clothes, just in time to see Merlin open his eyes and smile.

"If it's breakfast you're thinking about," Arthur said, scowling ferociously to hide the sudden surge of happiness that threatened to overcome him, "you're the one who forgot to buy that organic gloop you eat, not me."

Merlin made no reply, but looked up at him, pink and disheveled, from the mess of bedclothes, and held out his arms like a child.

Consequently, Arthur didn't bother to retrieve his clothes at all, but twenty minutes later Merlin bounded out of bed and fled to the bathroom, where he took the briefest shower in history. He returned to the bedroom and, by some miracle, dressed more rapidly than his Assistant Director, who was standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, eying himself groggily as he fastened his trousers, his shirt unbuttoned and hair every which way. Merlin surveyed him from head to foot, eyes lingering, as usual, on his lush lower lip, classic jawline, broad chest, and the fragment of muscular stomach revealed by his unfastened shirt.

"Is something wrong?" Arthur murmured, amused by the serious look on his junior conservator's face. "I hope it's not the effects of too much cake at the various after-parties," he added, as he put on his Ray Bans and glanced back at the mirror.

"Nooooo," replied Merlin consideringly. Then he frowned. "That is, not _really_." He couldn't resist it; vanity was one of Arthur's little vices, and it was simply too much fun to tease him about his waistline, which so far had resisted the onslaught of wedding calories and was still trim, although by no means as narrow as his own.

"_Mer_lin!" snapped Arthur, frowning in his turn. "If this is your way of saying I'm fat…"

"What about all of those tamales last night?" Merlin asked, and Arthur had to chuckle. They had gone out to eat at a nearby, highly praised Mexican restaurant, the previous evening, and had returned home red-faced and sweating. The food had been wonderful, remarkably delicious, but they had ordered—deliberately—the most chilies-rich items on the menu, a kind of competition to see who could handle them best.

"That was a face-melting experience," Arthur had claimed, wiping his streaming brow, once they reached their flat. Then he had howled with laughter upon discovering Merlin in the bathroom, his tongue extended beneath the cold tap.

"How long does your mouth stay this hot?" he had asked, panting, as Merlin emerged from the bathroom, eyes still watering. "I suppose it's the oil from the chilies. Can it be transferred to other surfaces? Perhaps there are some things we'd better not do once we're in bed."

"Maybe we should play it safe and not use our mouths for…for anything," Merlin replied. Thankfully, by the time they had fallen asleep, the stinging heat had dissipated completely and their digestive systems appeared to be quite intact.

"I am _not_ fat," Arthur was saying now, squinting down at his stomach. "I think my new trousers shrank in the laundry."

"And I suppose your belt shrank in the laundry as well," Merlin commented as he stared innocently at the ceiling.

"_Mer_lin," said Arthur in an ominous voice.

"I'll simply put another hole in the belt," Merlin replied, and then squawked as Arthur lunged at him for the second time that morning.

"Did you not hear me the first time?" Arthur muttered, smiling evilly as he pinned Merlin to the wardrobe door. "I said, I am _not_ fat. There must be something wrong with those ears."

"There's not a thing wrong with them," Merlin replied with as much dignity as he could muster whilst plastered between a mirror and his Assistant Director. "And I thought you rather liked them."

"Well, I do, rather," Arthur said thoughtfully as he stepped back. "They serve very nicely as handles, when you—_hey!_"

A pillow had struck him full in the face, dislodging his Ray Bans, and forcing him to grab Merlin's wrists and push him back against the wardrobe again.

Astonishingly enough, they were not even a minute late to work, but when they appeared in the staff lounge for coffee, Morgana asked Arthur why on earth he was grinning like a loon, and Merlin seized the closest thing to hand—Gaius' mug of noxious black coffee—burying his face in it, so that Will wouldn't ask him more or less the same question.

"Loons don't grin, Morgs," Arthur replied briskly. "Well, and that's a charming neck scarf _you're_ wearing. Sure you don't have something to hide?"

Morgana gave him one of her most withering looks as Leon nearly choked on his muffin, spraying crumbs across the room.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The staff meeting went smoothly, in spite of the fact that the younger generation (a term employed by Gaius and Geoffrey Monmouth to describe everybody under fifty) seemed itching to be someplace else. Gwen and Lance displayed an iPhone loaded with photos from a recent beach weekend. Morgana gave a brief summary of her latest research on the Fisher-King manuscript, but she kept forgetting to identify her source materials. Will fell asleep and had to be nudged awake by Merlin, before Arthur could notice. Leon kept sneaking peeks at his Chaucer notes and the medieval history dates he had jotted on note cards, and accidentally referred to museum visitors as "the angry mob." He hurriedly apologized, and said he had been thinking about the peasants' revolt in fourteenth-century England.

They were holding the meeting in the Assistant Director's office, and Arthur, sitting behind his massive desk in a flawlessly pressed white shirt, jacket, and tie, fumbled unconsciously with his gold cufflinks. He said nothing to his staff about the email he had received that morning from Uther, suggesting that, in perhaps five years' time, he would step down from his position as Senior Director and turn the job over to his son. Across the room from him, Merlin was slouched on a sofa next to Gwen, the image of schoolboy insouciance in his faded jeans and slightly more acceptable grey, V-necked tee. It was hard to believe that he had passed the quarter of a century mark; had, in fact, left it behind him.

"Conservators," said Arthur briskly, not looking at his civil partner. "I'd like your reports now, please. John says we have enough funding to bid for that suit of armor coming up at auction—the one Lance showed photos of at the last meeting—so I'd like one of you to go over to the auction house and check on its condition. Now…any new projects I don't know about?"

"Not really," Gaius responded over the rim of his coffee mug. "We're rather busy as it is, no time for new projects. Incidentally, that thirteenth-century French reliquary needs work, and Will's in the midst of treating our other metal pieces for bronze disease. Do you suppose Merlin could take care of it? Yes, Arthur, he may be a paper conservator, not an objects conservator, but you know he's qualified to work on three-dimensional pieces as well as paper."

"Right," said Arthur, looking from his Head of Conservation to Merlin. "If Merlin can spare the time from his other assignments, it's alright with me."

"I can do it; it's fine," said Merlin quietly, from the sofa, and Gaius gave him the glance of a proud papa, watching his fledgling take wing and soar to the heights.

"There aren't any saint's bones left in that reliquary, are there?" Morgana asked absently, looking up from her notes on the Fisher-King manuscript. "I haven't looked at that thing in ages."

"No bones," said Will, grinning. "No relics. Not a scrap."

"Who's going to go to Christies to look at my armor?" Lance demanded, and Arthur shrugged and then chuckled.

"_Your_ armor? It isn't even _our_ armor yet. Well, we can't send Merlin, not if he's working on two things at once. It isn't Gwen's area of expertise, not really. Will, could you kindly run over to the auction house tomorrow, and have a look at the thing? I'm all in favor of acquiring it, but let's just make certain it's intact."

"Yes, sire," mumbled Will, but he said it good-naturedly, and everybody smiled.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two days later, Arthur stood in the Objects Conservation studio—not Merlin's usual roost—watching his junior conservator put the finishing touches to his work on the Institute's French reliquary.

Merlin was staring thoughtfully at the thirteenth-century piece, shaped like a miniature church, the exterior of which was gilded and ornamented with gemstones and enameling. Two of the enamel plaques had come loose, and Merlin had re-attached them. He had also cleaned the entire reliquary, and re-aligned one of the tiny "doors" that had been dangling from its hinges. Now he was touching the gold surface very lightly with the tip of the brush held between his pale, slender fingers. True to his conservator's training, he removed his rings when he was working in the studio, placing the simple gold "wedding" band and the more solid Pendragon signet ring on the far end of his worktable. Sometimes he chose to wear them on a narrow strip of leather round his neck, along with his father's dragon. When he did this, they knocked into each other with a light clinking sound, and Arthur would make some pretend-caustic remark about his fancy bling.

Arthur narrowed his eyes and walked round the worktable, examining the reliquary from all angles.

"Don't even breathe on this thing," Merlin said absently, lifting a pair of miniscule tweezers. "It's horribly fragile."

Arthur edged closer, and looked carefully at the re-attached enamel plaques, both of which glowed with rich, glossy color. It was impossible to tell that they had ever been loose from the body of the vessel.

"Gaius thinks the treatment was successful," Merlin said, just a little defensively, because Arthur had been silent for so long.

The Assistant Director raised his head. "That's quite good, really," he murmured consideringly, putting his hand on Merlin's shoulder so that the tips of his fingers just rested lightly on his nape.

"Thanks," replied Merlin, trying not to look surprised. Arthur had never touched him at the Institute, before this, had scarcely done more than shake his hand, within the confines of the building.

"As good, if not better, than the work of any conservator I've ever met," Arthur continued, looking musingly at the reliquary.

"Oh…erm…thanks?" Merlin said again, uncertainly. "Objects conservation isn't really my thing, but—"

"I know Gaius will agree with me," said Arthur, tapping his fingers on Merlin's nape, "if I decide to make you a full conservator, a senior conservator, within the coming year."

It took a moment for this to sink in, and Merlin tried not to let his mouth fall open like an idiot.

"Well?" Arthur drawled, and Merlin bit his lip.

"People are going to say this museum is rife with nepotism and favoritism," he began, with the doubtful, questioning look that Arthur found so ador…_infuriating_. "And that a relative newcomer like me doesn't deserve it."

"Of course you deserve it, _Mer_lin," said Arthur. "It may not be a democracy here, as you've pointed out on so many occasions, but it _is_ a meritocracy. And you merit a title that reflects your abilities."

"Uth—your father won't approve," Merlin insisted, as if he hadn't heard any of this. "And you already have three full conservators. And The Great Dra…I mean John, won't like it because my salary will go up."

"Don't be _stupid_, Merlin," Arthur said sharply, although his gaze was gentle. "Gwen and Will aren't paper conservators. As for John, he knows we have contingencies built into the budget, for staff promotion and the like."

"Erm," said Merlin, running out of reasons why Arthur _shouldn't_ promote him to full conservator status. "I still think…"

"_Mer_lin," the Assistant Director said with finality, but his junior conservator could see Arthur's pride in him and, yes, his love, in his softened expression, the intimacy of his smile. "You are an _ab_solute, total _idiot_."

"Another reason not to promote me," Merlin said resolutely.

Arthur's fingers stroked caressingly through the ends of Merlin's hair, brushing the back of his neck…and the door to the Paper Conservation studio burst open as Will stepped purposefully into the room, before noticing the Assistant Director and stopping in his tracks.

"Ah! Arthur," said Will hastily, backing away, his eyes on the Assistant Director's caressing hand. "Wasn't expecting…oi! Merlin! Where's that acrylic resin I was asking to borrow?"

"Will," said Arthur in a very severe voice, and Will disappeared through the door, closing it behind him with a gentle click.

Merlin looked at the Assistant Director with both eyebrows raised.

"A moment of weakness," Arthur said sternly, removing his hand from Merlin's nape and putting both hands behind his back. "It won't happen again. Not at work. Now, as I was saying. About your promotion."

* * *

**First, my heartfelt thanks to all of you very kind reviewers, and for your fortitude in slogging through a very long read! A few of you have your 'private messaging' function disabled here on ff.n, so I wasn't able to reply to your reviews. I thank all of you, and am so very grateful for your comments, suggestions, and recommendations.**

**This may be the end of a "saga" of sorts, but I'd like to be able to turn out occasional one-shot mini fics about the boys and their colleagues at the PI; their further adventures, and various domestic milestones in Arthur and Merlin's relationship.**

**Now, if only Series 5 would hurry up and get here, so we can all have new material to work with!**


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